... 


The 
MOONLIT  WAY 


Novels  By  Robert  W.  Chambers 


The  Laughing  Girl 

The  Restless  Sex 

Barbarians 

The  Dark  Star 

The  Girl  Philippa 

Who  Goe8  There! 

Athalie 

The  Business  of  Life 

The  Gay  Rebellion 

The  Streets  of  Ascalon 

The  Common  Law 

The  Fighting  Chance 

The  Younger  Set 

The  Danger  Mark 

The  Firing  Line 

Japonette 

Quick  Action 

The  Adventures  of 

A  Modest  Man 
Anne's  Bridge 
Between  Friends 
The  Better  Man 
Police!!  ! 

Some    Ladies  in  Haste 
The  Tree  of  Heaven 
The  Tracer  of  Lost 

Persons 
The  Hidden  Children 


The  Moonlit  Way 

Cardigan 

The  Reckoning 

The  Maid-at-Arms 

Ailsa  Paige 

Special  Messenger 

The  Haunts  of  Men 

Lorraine 

Maids  of  Paradise 

Ashes  of  Empire 

The  Red  Republic 

Blue-Bird  Weather 

A  Young  Man  in  a 

Hurry 

The  Green  Mouse 
lole 

The  Mystery  of  Choice 
The  Cambric  Mask 
The  Maker  of  Moons 
The  King  in  Yellow 
In  Search  of  the 

Unknown 
The  Conspiritors 
A  King  and  a  Few 

Dukes 

In  the  Quarter 
Outsiders 


HIS     STRAIXED     GAZE     SOUGHT     TO     FIX     ITSELF 


THIS     FACE 

(PAGE  325) 


The 

MOONLIT  WAY 


A  Novel 


BY 

ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

AUTHOB  OP 

"THE  COMMON  LAW,"  "THE  FIGHTING  CHAHCE,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED   3T 

A.  I.  KELLER 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

COPYRIGHT,  1918,  1919,  BY  THE 
INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  CO. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

MY  FRIEND 

FRANK  HITCHCOCK 


91S824 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PROLOGUE — CLAIRE-DE-LUNE  .......  1 

CHAPTER 

I.  A  SHADOW  DANCE 19 

II.  SUNRISE •  28 

III.  SUNSET .     .     ,     .  39 

IV.  DUSK     ...........  46 

V.   IN  DRAGON  COURT     .     .     .     .     ...  57 

VI.  DULCIE       ..........  78 

VII.   OPPORTUNITY  KNOCKS     . 87 

VIII.  DULCIE  ANSWERS  .      .     .     ...     .     •  102 

IX.   HER  DAY    ...     \     ......  109 

X.  HER  EVENING.     .     .     ....     .     .  123 

XL  HER  NIGHT .     .     .  13l 

XII.   THE  LAST  MAIL    ........  155 

XIII.  A  MIDNIGHT  TETE-A-TETE 170 

XIV.  PROBLEMS ;•     ...  186 

XV.  BLACKMAIL       .......     .    ".  194 

XVI.  THE  WATCHER       .     .     •  '-..•     •     •     •  205 

XVII.  A  CONFERENCE     .     ...     .     .     .     .  216 

XVIII.  THE  BABBLER 233 

XIX.   A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER    ......  249 

XX.   GROGAN'S   . 265 

XXI.  THE  WHITE  BLACKBIRD   .     .     .     .     .     .  278 

vii 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXII. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 

XXV. 
XXVI. 


FORELAND  FARMS 292 

A  LION  IN  THE  PATH 312 

A  SILENT  HOUSE 328 

STARLIGHT 339 

'BE-N-EIRINN  i!  349 


XXVII.    THE  MOONLIT  WAY 
XXVIII.    GREEN  JACKETS 
XXIX.    ASIHORE  .     . 


366 
385 
407 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING   PAGK 

His  strained  gaze  sought  to  fix  itself  on  this  face 
before  him ,     Frontispiece 

Nihla  put  her  feathered  steed  through  its   absurd 
paces  .      .      ...     .     . 8 

"You  little  miracle!"        ...     .     .     .     .      .     .     100 

He  came  toward  her  stealthily      ......     382 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


PROLOGUE 

.;•  .  t . 

CLAIEE-DE-LUNE 

THERE  was  a  big  moon  over  the  Bosphorus ;  the 
limpid  waters  off  Seraglio  Point  glimmered ;  the 
Golden  Horn  was  like  a  sheet  of  beaten  silver 
inset  with  topaz  and  ruby  where  lanterns  on  rusting 
Turkish  warships  dyed  the  tarnished  argent  of  the 
flood.  Except  for  these,  and  the  fixed  lights  on  the 
foreign  guard-ships  and  on  a  big  American  steam 
yacht,  only  a  pale  and  nebulous  shoreward  glow  be 
trayed  the  monster  city. 

Over  Pera  the  full  moon's  lustre  fell,  silvering  palace, 
villa,  sea  and  coast ;  its  rays  glimmered  on  bridge  and 
wharf,  bastion,  tower  arsenal,  and  minarette,  trans 
forming  those  big,  sprawling,  ramshackle  blotches  of 
architecture  called  Constantinople  into  that  shadowy, 
magnificent  enchantment  of  the  East,  which  all  believe 
in,  but  which  exists  only  in  a  poet's  heart  and  mind. 

Night  veiled  the  squalour  of  Balat,  and  its  filth,  its 
meanness,  its  flimsy  sham.  Moonlight  made  of  Galata 
a  marvel,  ennobling  every  bastard  dome,  every  starved 
fa9ade,  every  unlovely  and  attenuated  minarette,  and 
invested  with  added  charm  each  really  lovely  ruin,  each 
tower,  palace,  mosque,  garden  wall  and  balcony,  and 
every  crenelated  battlement,  where  the  bronze  bulk  of 

1 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


ancient  cannon  slantecl, :  outlined  in  silver  under  the 
Prophet's  moon. 

Tmy:  ftiGv;iag  light^  ^winkled  on  the  Galata  Bridge; 
pale  points  of  radiance  dotted  Scutari;  but  the  group 
of  amazing  cities  called  Constantinople  lay  almost 
blotted  out  under  the  moon. 

Darker  at  night  than  any  capital  in  the  world,  its 
huge,  solid  and  ancient  shapes  bulking  gigantic  in  the 
night,  its  noble  ruins  cloaked,  its  cheap  filth  hidden, 
its  flimsy  Coney  Island  aspect  transfigured  and  the 
stylographic-pen  architecture  of  a  hundred  minarettes 
softened  into  slender  elegance,  Constantinople  lay 
dreaming  its  immemorial  dreams  under  the  black 
shadow  of  the  Prussian  eagle. 

The  German  Embassy  was  lighted  up  like  a  Pera 
cafe ;  the  drawing-rooms  crowded  with  a  brilliant  throng 
where  sashes,  orders,  epaulettes  and  sabre-tache  glit 
tered,  and  jewels  blazed  and  aigrettes  waved  under  the 
crystal  chandeliers,  accenting  and  isolating  sombre 
civilian  evening  dress,  which  seemed  mournful,  rusty, 
and  out  of  the  picture,  even  when  plastered  over  with 
jewelled  stars. 

Few  Turkish  officials  and  officers  were  present,  but 
the  disquieting  sight  of  German  officers  in  Turkish  uni 
forms  was  not  uncommon.  And  the  Count  d'Eblis, 
Senator  of  France,  noted  this  phenomenon  with  lively 
curiosity,  and  mentioned  it  to  his  companion,  Ferez 
Bey. 

Ferez  Bey,  lounging  in  a  corner  with  Adolf  Ger- 
hardt,  for  whom  he  had  procured  an  invitation,  and 
flanked  by  the  Count  d'Eblis,  likewise  a  guest  aboard 
the  rich  German-American  banker's  yacht,  was  very 
much  in  his  element  as  friend  and  mentor. 

For  Ferez  Bey  knew  everybody  in  the  Orient — knew 


CLAIRE-DE-LUNE 


when  to  cringe,  when  to  be  patronising,  when  to  fawn, 
when  to  assert  himself,  when;  tp;l&  servile,  when  im 
pudent. 

He  was  as  impudent  to  Ajdoii [  Getfhjar$t;  *«i  :fc£  dstred 
be,  the  banker  not  knowing  the  subtler  shades  and  dif 
ferences  ;  he  was  on  an  equality  with  the  French  sena 
tor,  Monsieur  le  Comte  d'Eblis  because  he  knew  that 
d'Eblis  dared  not  resent  his  familiarity. 

Otherwise,  in  that  brilliant  company,  Ferez  Bey  was 
a  jackal — and  he  knew  it  perfectly — but  a  valuable 
jackal;  and  he  also  knew  that. 

So  when  the  German  Ambassador  spoke  pleasantly 
to  him,  his  attitude  was  just  sufficiently  servile,  but  not 
overdone;  and  when  Von-der-Hohe  Pasha,  in  the  uni 
form  of  a  Turkish  General  of  Division,  graciously  ex 
changed  a  polite  word  with  him  during  a  moment's 
easy  gossip  with  the  Count  d'Eblis,  Ferez  Bey  writhed 
moderately  under  the  honour,  but  did  not  exactly 
squirm. 

To  Conrad  von  Heimholz  he  ventured  to  present  his 
German-American  patron,  Adolf  Gerhardt,  and  the  thin 
young  military  attache  condescended  in  his  Prussian 
way  to  notice  the  introduction. 

"Saw  your  yacht  in  the  harbour,"  he  admitted 
stiffly.  "It  is  astonishing  how  you  Americans  permit 
no  bounds  to  your  somewhat  noticeable  magnificence." 

"She's  a  good  boat,  the  Mirage/9  rumbled  Gerhardt, 
in  his  bushy  red  beard,  "but  there  are  plenty  in  Amer 
ica  finer  than  mine." 

"Not  many,  Adolf,"  insisted  Ferez,  in  his  flat,  Eura 
sian  voice — "not  ver'  many  anyw'ere  so  fine  like  your 
Mirage." 

"I  saw  none  finer  at  Kiel,"  said  the  attache,  staring 
at  Gerhardt  through  his  monocle,  with  the  habitual 
insolence  and  disapproval  of  the  Prussian  junker.  "To 

3 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


me  it ,ex3^bits.  bad,  tastt-" — he  turned  to  the  Count 
d'EbUs^* "particularly  'when  the  Meteor  is  there." 

"Wtere?;?  jubd  the  .Count. 

**At  Kiel.1  '  I  speak '  of  Kiel  and  the  ostentation  of 
certain  foreign  yacht  owners  at  the  recent  regatta." 

Gerhardt,  redder  than  ever,  was  still  German  enough 
to  swallow  the  meaningless  insolence.  He  was  not  get 
ting  on  very  well  at  the  Embassy  of  his  fellow  country 
men.  Americans,  properly  presented,  they  endured 
without  too  open  resentment;  for  German-Americans, 
even  when  millionaires,  their  contempt  and  bad  man 
ners  were  often  undisguised. 

"I'm  going  to  get  out  of  this,"  growled  Gerhardt, 
who  held  a  good  position  socially  in  New  York  and  in 
the  fashionable  colony  at  Northbrook.  "I've  seen 
enough  puffed  up  Germans  and  over-embroidered 
Turks  to  last  me.  Come  on,  d'Eblis " 

Ferez  detained  them  both: 

"Surely,"  he  protested,  "you  would  not  miss  Nihla !" 

"Nihla?"  repeated  d'Eblis,  who  had  passed  his  arm 
through  Gerhardt's.  "Is  that  the  girl  who  set  St. 
Petersburg  by  the  ears?" 

"Nihla  Quellen,"  rumbled  Gerhardt.  "I've  heard  of 
her.  She's  a  dancer,  isn't  she?" 

Ferez,  of  course,  knew  all  about  her,  and  he  drew 
the  two  men  into  the  embrasure  of  a  long  window. 

It  was  not  happening  just  exactly  as  he  and  the 
German  Ambassador  had  planned  it  together ;  they  had 
intended  to  let  Nihla  burst  like  a  flaming  jewel  on  the 
vision  of  d'Eblis  and  blind  him  then  and  there. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  better  drama  to  prepare 
her  entrance.  And  who  but  Ferez  was  qualified  to  pre 
pare  that  entree,  or  to  speak  with  authority  concern 
ing  the  history  of  this  strange  and  beautiful  young 
girl  who  had  suddenly  appeared  like  a  burning  star 

4 


CLAIRE-DE-LUNE 


in  the  East,  had  passed  like  a  meteor  through  St. 
Petersburg,  leaving  several  susceptible  young  men — 
notably  the  Grand  Duke  Cyril — mentally  unhinged  and 
hopelessly  dissatisfied  with  fate. 

"It  is  ver'  fonny,  d'Eblis — une  histoire  chic,  vous 
savez !  Figurez  vous " 

"Talk  English,"  growled  Gerhardt,  eyeing  the  se 
rene  progress  of  a  pretty  Highness,  Austrian,  of 
course,  surrounded  by  gorgeous  uniforms  and  em- 
pressement. 

"Who's  that?"  he  added. 

Ferez  turned;  the  gorgeous  lady  snubbed  bim,  but 
bowed  to  d'Eblis. 

"The  Archduchess  Zilka,"  he  said,  not  a  whit 
abashed.  "She  is  a  ver9  great  frien'  of  mine." 

"Can't  you  present  me?"  enquired  Gerhardt,  rest 
lessly;  " — or  you,  d'Eblis — can't  you  ask  permission?" 

The  Count  d'Eblis  nodded  inattentively,  then  turned 
his  heavy  and  rather  vulgar  face  to  Ferez,  plainly  in 
terested  in  the  "histoire"  of  the  girl,  Nihla. 

"What  were  you  going  to  say  about  that  dancer?" 
he  demanded. 

Ferez  pretended  to  forget,  then,  apparently  recol 
lecting  : 

"Ah !  Apropos  of  Nihla?  It  is  a  ver'  piquant  storee 
— the  storee  of  Nihla  Quellen.  Zat  is  not  'er  name. 
No !  Her  name  is  Dunois — Thessalie  Dunois." 

"French,"  nodded  d'Eblis. 

"Alsatian,"  replied  Ferez  slyly.  "Her  fathaire  was 
captain — Achille  Dunois? — you  know ?" 

"What!"  exclaimed  d'Eblis.  "Do  you  mean  that 
notorious  fellow,  the  Grand  Duke  Cyril's  hunting 
cheetah?" 

"The  same,  dear  frien'.  Dunois  is  dead — his  bullet 
head  was  crack  open,  doubtless  by  som'  ladee's  an- 

5 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


gree  husban'.  There  are  a  few  thousan'  roubles — 
not  more — to  stan'  between  some  kind  gentleman  and 
the  prettee  Nihla.  You  see?"  he  added  to  Gerhardt, 
who  was  listening  without  interest,  " — Dunois,  if  he 
was  the  Gran'  Duke's  cheetah,  kept  all  such  merry 
gentlemen  from  his  charming  daughtaire." 

Gerhardt,  whose  aspirations  lay  higher,  socially, 
than  a  dancing  girl,  merely  grunted.  But  d'Eblis, 
whose  aspirations  were  always  below  even  his  own  level, 
listened  with  visibly  increasing  curiosity.  And  this  was 
according  to  the  programme  of  Ferez  Bey  and  Ex- 
cellenz.  As  the  Hun  has  it,  "according  to  plan." 

"Well,"  enquired  d'Eblis  heavily,  "did  Cyril  get 
her?" 

"All  St.  Petersburg  is  still  laughing  at  heem,"  re 
plied  the  voluble  Eurasian.  "Cyril  indeed  launched 
ixer.  And  that  was  sufficient — yet,  that  first  night  she 
storm  St.  Petersburg.  And  Cyril's  reward?  Listen, 
d'Eblis,  they  say  she  slapped  his  sillee  face.  For  me, 
I  don't  know.  That  is  the  storee.  And  he  was  ver' 
angree,  Cyril.  You  know?  And,  by  God,  it  was  what 
Gerhardt  calls  a  'raw  deal.'  Yess?  Figurez  vous!— 
this  girl,  deja  lancee — and  her  fathaire  the  Grand 
Duke's  hunting  cheetah,  and  her  mothaire,  what?  Yes, 
iaon  ami,  a  'andsome  Georgianne,  caught  quite  wild, 
they  say,  by  Prince  Haledine!  For  me,  I  believe  it. 
Why  not?  .  .  .  And  then  the  beautiful  Georgianne, 
she  fell  to  Dunois — on  a  bet? — a  service  rendered? — 

gratitude  of  Cyril? Who  knows?  Only  that 

Dunois  must  marry  her.  And  Nihla  is  their  daugh 
taire.  Voila!" 

"Then  why,"  demanded  d'Eblis,  "does  she  make  such 
&  fuss  about  being  grateful?  I  hate  ingratitude,  Fe- 
Tez.  And  how  can  she  last,  anyway?  To  dance  for 
the  German  Ambassador  in  Constantinople  is  all  very 

6 


CLAIRE-DE-LUNE 


well,  but  unless  somebody  launches  her  properly — in 
Paris — she'll  end  in  a  Pera  cafe. 

Ferez  held  his  peace  and  listened  with  all  his  might. 

"I  could  do  that,"  added  d'Eblis. 

"Please?"  inquired  Ferez  suavely. 

"Launch  her  in  Paris." 

The  programme  of  Excellenz  and  Ferez  Bey  was 
certainly  proceeding  as  planned. 

But  Gerhardt  was  becoming  restless  and  dully  irri 
tated  as  he  began  to  realise  more  and  more  what  caste 
meant  to  Prussians  and  how  insignificant  to  these 
people  was  a  German-American  multimillionaire.  And 
Ferez  realised  that  he  must  do  something. 

There  was  a  Bavarian  Baroness  there,  uglier  than 
the  usual  run  of  Bavarian  baronesses ;  and  to  her 
Ferez  nailed  Gerhardt,  and  wriggled  free  himself,  mak 
ing  his  way  amid  the  gorgeous  throngs  to  the  Count 
d'Eblis  once  more. 

"I  left  Gerhardt  planted,"  he  remarked  with  satis 
faction;  "by  God,  she  is  uglee  like  camels — the  Bar 
oness  von  Schaunitz !  Nev'  mind.  It  is  nobility ;  it  is 
the  same  to  Adolf  Gerhardt." 

"A  homely  woman  makes  me  sick!"  remarked  d'Eblis. 
"Eh,  mon  Dieu! — one  has  merely  to  look  at  these 
ladies  to  guess  their  nationality!  Only  in  Germany 
can  one  gather  together  such  a  collection  of  horrors. 
The  only  pretty  ones  are  Austrian." 

Perhaps  even  the  cynicism  of  Excellenz  had  not 
realised  the  perfection  of  this  setting,  but  Ferez,  the 
nimble  witted,  had  foreseen  it. 

Already  the  glittering  crowds  in  the  drawing  rooms 
were  drawing  aside  like  jewelled  curtains;  already  the 
stringed  orchestra  had  become  mute  aloft  in  its  gilded 
gallery. 

The  gay  tumult  softened ;  laughter,  voices,  the  rustle 

7 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


of  silks  and  fans,  the  metallic  murmur  of  drawing- 
room  equipment  died  away.  Through  the  increasing 
stillness,  from  the  gilded  gallery  a  Thessalonian  reed 
began  skirling  like  a  thrush  in  the  underbrush. 

Suddenly  a  sand-coloured  curtain  at  the  end  of  the 
east  room  twitched  open,  and  a  great  desert  ostrich 
trotted  in.  And,  astride  of  the  big,  excited,  bridled 
bird,  sat  a  young  girl,  controlling  her  restless  mount 
with  disdainful  indifference. 

"Nihla!"  whispered  Ferez,  in  the  large,  fat  ear  of 
the  Count  d'Eblis.  The  latter's  pallid  jowl  reddened 
and  his  pendulous  lips  tightened  to  a  deep-bitten  crease 
across  his  face. 

To  the  weird  skirling  of  the  Thessalonian  pipe  the 
girl,  Nihla,  put  her  feathered  steed  through  its  ab 
surd  paces,  aping  the  haute-ecole. 

There  is  little  humour  in  your  Teuton;  they  were 
too  amazed  to  laugh;  too  fascinated,  possibly  by  the 
girl  herself,  to  follow  the  panicky  gambols  of  the  rep 
tile-headed  bird. 

The  girl  wore  absolutely  nothing  except  a  Yashmak 
and  a  zone  of  blue  jewels  across  her  breasts  and  hips. 

Her  childish  throat,  her  limbs,  her  slim,  snowy  body, 
her  little  naked  feet  were  lovely  beyond  words.  Her 
thick  dark  hair  flew  loose,  now  framing,  now  veiling 
an  oval  face  from  which,  above  the  gauzy  Yashmak's 
edge,  two  dark  eyes  coolly  swept  her  breathless  audi 
ence. 

But  under  the  frail  wisp  of  cobweb,  her  cheeks 
glowed  pink,  and  two  full  red  lips  parted  deliciously 
in  the  half-checked  laughter  of  confident,  reckless 
youth. 

Over  hurdle  after  hurdle  she  lifted  her  powerful, 
half-terrified  mount;  she  backed  it,  pirouetted,  made 

8 


•      v 


CLAIBE-DE-LUNE 


it  squat,  leap,  pace,  trot,  run  with  wings  half  spread 
and  neck  stretched  level. 

She  rode  sideways,  then  kneeling,  standing,  then 
poised  on  one  foot ;  she  threw  somersaults,  faced  to 
the  rear,  mounted  and  dismounted  at  full  speed.  And 
through  the  frail,  transparent  Yashmak  her  parted  red 
lips  revealed  the  glimmer  of  teeth  and  her  childishly 
engaging  laughter  rang  delightfully. 

Then,  abruptly,  she  had  enough  of  her  bird ;  she 
wheeled,  sprang  to  the  polished  parquet,  and  sent  her 
feathered  steed  scampering  away  through  the  sand- 
coloured  curtains,  which  switched  into  place  again 
immediately. 

Breathless,  laughing  that  frank,  youthful,  irresisti 
ble  laugh  which  was  to  become  so  celebrated  in  Europe, 
Nihla  Quellen  strolled  leisurely  around  the  circle  of 
her  applauding  audience,  carelessly  blowing  a  kiss  or 
two  from  her  slim  finger-tips,  evidently  quite  unspoiled 
by  her  success  and  equally  delighted  to  please  and  to 
be  pleased. 

Then,  in  the  gilded  gallery  the  strings  began;  and 
quite  naturally,  without  any  trace  of  preparation  or 
self-consciousness,  Nihla  began  to  sing,  dancing  when 
the  fascinating,  irresponsible  measure  called  for  it, 
singing  again  as  the  sequence  occurred.  And  the  en 
chantment  of  it  all  lay  in  its  accidental  and  detached 
allure — as  though  it  all  were  quite  spontaneous — the 
song  a  passing  whim,  the  dance  a  capricious  after 
thought,  and  the  whole  thing  done  entirely  to  please 
herself  and  give  vent  to  the  sheer  delight  of  a  young 
girl,  in  her  own  overwhelming  energy  and  youthful 
spirits. 

Even  the  Teuton  comprehended  that,  and  the  ap 
plause  grew  to  a  roar  with  that  odd  undertone  of  ani- 

9 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


mal  menace  always  to  be  detected  when  the  German 
herd  is  gratified  and  expresses  pleasure  en  masse. 

But  she  wouldn't  stay,  wouldn't  return.  Like  one 
of  those  beautiful  Persian  cats,  she  had  lingered  long 
enough  to  arouse  delight.  Then  she  went,  deaf  to  re 
call,  to  persuasion,  to  caress — indifferent  to  praise,  to 
blandishment,  to  entreaty.  Cat  and  dancer  were  sim 
ilar;  Nihla,  like  the  Persian  puss,  knew  when  she  had 
had  enough.  That  was  sufficient  for  her:  nothing 
could  stop  her,  nothing  lure  her  to  return. 

Beads  of  sweat  were  glistening  upon  the  heavy  fea 
tures  of  the  Count  d'Eblis.  Von-der-Goltz  Pasha, 
strolling  near,  did  him  the  honour  to  remember  him, 
but  d'Eblis  seemed  dazed  and  unresponsive;  and  the 
old  Pasha  understood,  perhaps,  when  he  caught  the 
beady  and  expressive  eyes  of  Ferez  fixed  on  him  in 
exultation* 

"Whose  is  she?"  demanded  d'Eblis  abruptly.  His 
voice  was  hoarse  and  evidently  out  of  control,  for  he 
spoke  too  loudly  to  please  Ferez,  who  took  him  by 
the  arm  and  led  him  out  to  the  moonlit  terrace. 

"Mon  pauvere  ami,"  he  said  soothingly,  "she  is 
actually  the  propertee  of  nobodee  at  present.  Cyril, 
they  say,  is  following  her — quite  ready  for  anything — 
marriage " 

"What!" 

Ferez  shrugged: 

"That  is  the  gosseep.  No  doubt  som'  man  of  wealth, 
more  acceptable  to  her " 

"I  wish  to  meet  her!"  said  d'Eblis. 

"Ah!     That  is,  of  course,  not  easee " 

"Why?" 

Ferez  laughed: 

"Ask  yo'self  the  question  again!     Excellenz  and  his 

guests  have  gone  quite  mad  ovaire  Nihla " 

10 


CLAIRE-DE-LUNE 


"I  care  nothing  for  them,"  retorted  d'Eblis  thickly ; 
"I  wish  to  know  her.  ...  I  wish  to  know  her!  .  .  . 
Do  you  understand?'9 

After  a  silence,  Ferez  turned  in  the  moonlight  and 
looked  at  the  Count  d'Eblis. 

"And  your  newspapaire — Le  Mot  d'Ordre?" 

"Yes.  ...     If  you  get  her  for  me." 

"You  sell  to  me  for  two  million  francs  the  control 
stock  in  Le,  Mot  d'Ordre?" 

"Yes." 

"An5  the  two  million,  eh?" 

"I  shall  use  my  influence  with  Gerhardt.  That  is  all 
I  can  do.  If  your  Emperor  chooses  to  decorate  him — 
something — the  Red  Eagle,  third  class,  perhaps " 

"I  attend  to  those,"  smiled  Ferez.  "Hit's  ver'  fonny, 
d'Eblis,  how  I  am  thinking  about  those  Red  Eagles 
all  time  since  I  know  Gerhardt.  I  spik  to  Von-der- 
Goltz  de  votre  part,  si  vous  le  voulez  ?  Oui  ?  Alors " 

"Ask  her  to  supper  aboard  the  yacht." 

"God  knows " 

The  Count  d'Eblis  said  through  closed  teeth: 

"There  is  the  first  woman  I  ever  really  wanted  in 
all  my  life!  ...  I  am  standing  here  now  waiting  for 
her — waiting  to  be  presented  to  her  now." 

"I  spik  to  Von-der-Goltz  Pasha,"  said  Ferez;  and 
he  slipped  through  the  palms  and  orange  trees  and 
vanished. 

For  half  an  hour  the  Count  d'Eblis  stood  there, 
motionless  in  the  moonlight. 

She  came  about  that  time,  on  the  arm  of  Ferez  Bey, 
her  father's  friend  of  many  years. 

And  Ferez  left  her  there  in  the  creamy  Turkish 
moonlight  on  the  flowering  terrace,  alone  with  the 
Count  d'Eblis. 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


When  Ferez  came  again,  long  after  midnight,  with 
Excellenz  on  one  arm  and  the  proud  and  happy  Adolf 
Gerhardt  on  the  other,  the  whole  c}^cle  of  a  little 
drama  had  been  placed  to  a  conclusion  between  those 
two  shadowy  figures  under  the  flowering  almonds  on  the 
terrace — between  this  slender,  dark-eyed  girl  and  this 
big,  bulky,  heavy-visaged  man  of  the  world. 

And  the  man  had  been  beaten  and  the  girl  had  laid 
down  every  term.  And  the  compact  was  this :  that 
she  was  to  be  launched  in  Paris;  she  was  merely  to 
borrow  any  sum  needed,  with  privilege  to  acquit  the 
debt  within  the  year;  that,  if  she  ever  came  to  care 
for  this  man  sufficiently,  she  was  to  become  only  one 
species  of  masculine  property — a  legal  wife. 

And  to  every  condition — and  finally  even  to  the  last, 
the  man  had  bowed  his  heavy,  burning  head. 

"D'Eblis!"  began  Gerhardt,  almost  stammering  in 
his  joy  and  pride.  "His  highness  tells  me  that  I  am 
to  have  an  order — an  Imperial  d-decoration " 

D'Eblis  stared  at  him  out  of  unseeing  eyes;  Nihla 
laughed  outright,  alas,  too  early  wise  and  not  even 
troubling  her  lovely  head  to  wonder  why  a  decoration 
had  been  asked  for  this  burly,  bushy-bearded  man 
from  nowhere. 

But  within  his  sinuous,  twisted  soul  Ferez  writhed 
exultingly,  and  patted  Gerhardt  on  the  arm,  and  pat 
ted  d'Eblis,  too — dared  even  to  squirm  visibly  closer 
to  Excellenz,  like  a  fawning  dog  that  fears  too  much 
to  venture  contact  in  his  wriggling  demonstrations. 

"You  take  with  you  our  pretty  wonder-child  to 
Paris  to  be  launched,  I  hear,"  remarked  Excellenz,  most 
affably,  to  d'Eblis.  And  to  Nihla :  "And  upon  a  yacht 
fit  for  an  emperor,  I  understand.  Ach !  Such  a  going 
forth  is  only  heard  of  in  the  Arabian  Nights.  Eh 


CLAIRE-DE-LUNE 


bien,  ma  petite,  go  West,  conquer,  and  reign!     It  is 
a  prophecy!" 

And  Nihla  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  her  full- 
throated  laughter  under  the  Turkish  moon. 

Later,  Ferez,  walking  with  the  Ambassador,  replied 
humbly  to  the  curt  question: 

"Yes,  I  have  become  his  jackal.  But  always  at  the 
orders  of  Excellenz." 

Later  still,  aboard  the  Mirage,  Ferez  stood  alone 
by  the  after-rail,  staring  with  ratty  eyes  at  the  black 
ness  beyond  the  New  Bridge. 

"Oh,  God,  be  merciful !"  he  whispered.  He  had  often 
said  it  on  the  eve  of  crime.  Even  an  Eurasian  rat  has 
emotions.  And  Ferez  had  been  in  love  with  Nihla  many 
years,  and  was  selling  her  now  at  a  price — selling  her 
and  Adolf  Gerhardt  and  the  Count  d'Eblis  and  France 
— all  he  had  to  barter — for  he  had  sold  his  soul  too  long 
ago  to  remember  even  what  he  got  for  it. 

The  silence  seemed  more  intense  for  the  sounds  that 
made  it  audible.  From,  the  unlighted  cities  on  the 
seven  hills  came  an  unbroken  howling  of  dogs;  trans 
parent  waves  of  the  limpid  Bosphorus  slapped  the  ves 
sel's  sides,  making  a  mellow  and  ceaseless  clatter.  Far 
away  beyond  Galata  Quay,  in  the  inner  reek  of  unseen 
Stamboul,  the  notes  of  a  Turkish  flute  stole  out  across 
the  darkness,  where  some  Tzigane — some  unseen  wretch 
in  rags — was  playing  the  melancholy  song  of  Mourad. 
And,  mournfully  responsive  to  the  reedy  complaint 
of  a  homeless  wanderer  from  a  nation  without  a  home, 
the  homeless  dogs  of  Islam  wailed  their  miserere  under 
the  Prophet's  moon. 

The  tragic  wolf-song  wavered  from  hill  to  hill;  from 
the  Fields  of  the  Dead  to  the  Seven  Towers,  from 

13 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Kassim  to  Tophane,  seeming  to  swell  into  one  dreadful, 
endless  plaint: 

"My  God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me?" 
"And  me!"  muttered  Ferez,  shivering  in  the  windy 
vapours  from  the  Black  Sea,  which  already  dampened 
his  face  with  their  creeping  summer  chill. 
"Ferez!" 

He  turned  slowly.  Swathed  in  a  white  wool  bernous, 
Nihla  stood  there  in  the  foggy  moonlight. 

"Why?"  she  enquired,  without  preliminaries  and 
with  the  unfeigned  curiosity  of  a  child. 

He  did  not  pretend  to  misunderstand  her  in  French: 
"Thou  knowest,  Nihla.     I  have  never  touched  thy 

heart.     I  could  do  nothing  for  thee " 

"Except  to  'sell  me,"  she  smiled,  interrupting  him  in 
English,  without  the  slightest  trace  of  accent. 
But  Ferez  preferred  the  refuge  of  French: 
"Except   to   launch   thee   and    make    possible    thy 
career,"  he  corrected  her  very  gently. 
"I  thought  you  were  in  love  with  me?" 
"I  have  loved  thee,  Nihla,  since  thy  childhood." 
"Is  there  anything  on  earth  or  in  paradise,  Ferez, 
that  you  would  not  sell  for  a  price?" 

"I  tell  thee " 

"Zut!  I  know  thee,  Ferez!"  she  mocked  him,  slip 
ping  easily  into  French.  "What  was  my  price?  Who 
pays  thee,  Colonel  Ferez?  This  big,  shambling,  world- 
wearied  Count,  who  is,  nevertheless,  afraid  of  me?  Did 
he  pay  thee?  Or  was  it  this  rich  American,  Gerhardt? 
Or  was  it  Von-der-Goltz?  Or  Excellenz?" 

"Nihla !     Thou  knowest  me " 

Her  clear,  untroubled  laughter  checked  him: 
"I  know  you,  Ferez.     That  is  why  I  ask.     That  is 
why  I  shall  have  no  reply  from  you.     Only  iny  wits 
can  ever  answer  me  any  questions." 

14 


CLAIRE-DE-LUNE 


She  stood  laughing  at  him,  swathed  in  her  white 
wool,  looming  like  some  mocking  spectre  in  the  misty 
moonlight  of  the  after-deck. 

"Oh,  Ferez,"  she  said  in  her  sweet,  malicious  voice, 
"there  was  a  curse  on  Midas,  too!  You  play  at  high 
finance;  you  sell  what  you  never  had  to  sell,  and  you 
are  paid  for  it.  All  your  life  you  have  been  busy 
selling,  re-selling,  bargaining,  betraying,  seeking  always 
gain  where  only  loss  is  possible — loss  of  all  that  justi 
fies  a  man  in  daring  to  stand  alive  before  the  God  that 
made  him!  .  .  .  And  yet — that  which  you  call  love — 
that  shadowy  emotion  which  you  have  also  sold  to 
night — I  think  you  really  feel  for  me.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  be 
lieve  it.  ...  But  it,  too,  has  its  price.  .  .  .  What 
was  that  price,  Ferez?" 

"Believe  me,  Nihla " 

"Oh,  Ferez,  you  ask  too  much !  No !  Let  me  tell  you, 
then.  The  price  was  paid  by  that  American,  who  is 
not  one  but  a  German." 

"That  is  absurd!" 

"Why  the  Red  Eagle,  then?  And  the  friendship  of 
Excellenz?  What  is  he  then,  this  Gerhardt,  but  a  mil 
lionaire?  Why  is  nobility  so  gracious  then?  What 
does  Gerhardt  give  for  his  Red  Eagle  ? — for  the  polite 
ness  of  Excellenz? — for  the  crooked  smile  of  a  Bavarian 
Baroness  and  the  lifted  lorgnette  of  Austria?  What 
does  he  give  for  me?  Who  buys  me  after  all?  Enver? 
Talaat?  Hilmi?  Who  sells  me?  Excellenz?  Von- 
der-Goltz?  You?  And  who  pays  for  me?  Gerhardt, 
who  takes  his  profit  in  Red  Eagles  and  offers  me  to 
d'Eblis  for  something  in  exchange  to  please  Excellenz 
— and  you?  And  what,  at  the  end  of  the  bargaining, 
does  d'Eblis  pay  for  me — pay  through  Gerhardt  to 
you,  and  through  you  to  Excellenz,  and  through  Ex 
cellenz  to  the  Kaiser  Wilhelm  II " 

15 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Ferez,  showing  his  teeth,  came  close  to  her  and  spoke 
very  softly : 

"See  how  white  is  the  moonlight  off  Seraglio  Point, 
my  Nihla!  ...  It  is  no  whiter  than  those  loveliest 
ones  who  lie  fathoms  deep  below  these  little  silver 
waves.  .  .  .  Each  with  her  bowstring  snug  about  her 
snowy  neck.  ...  As  fair  and  young,  as  warm  and 
fresh  and  sweet  as  thou,  my  Nihla." 

He  smiled  at  her ;  and  if  the  smile  stiffened  an  instant 
on  her  lips,  the  next  instant  her  light,  dauntless  laugh 
ter  mocked  him. 

"For  a  price,"  she  said,  "you  would  sell  even  Life 
to  that  old  miser,  Death !  Then  listen  what  you  have 
done,  little  smiling,  whining  jackal  of  his  Excellency! 
I  go  to  Paris  and  to  my  career,  certain  of  my  happy 
destiny,  sure  of  myself!  For  my  opportunity  I  pay 
if  I  choose — pay  what  I  choose — when  and  where  it 
suits  me  to  pay ! " 

She  slipped  into  French  with  a  little  laugh : 

"Now  go  and  lick  thy  fingers  of  whatever  crumbs 
have  stuck  there.  The  Count  d'Eblis  is  doubtless  lick 
ing  his.  Good  appetite,  my  Ferez !  Lick  away  lustily, 
for  God  does  not  temper  the  jackal's  appetite  to  his 
opportunities !" 

Ferez  let  his  level  gaze  rest  on  her  in  silence. 

"Well,  trafficker  in  Eagles,  dealer  in  love,  vendor  of 
youth,  merchant  of  souls,  what  strikes  you  silent?" 

But  he  was  thinking  of  something  sharper  than  her 
tongue  and  less  subtle,  which  one  day  might  strike  her 
silent  if  she  laughed  too  much  at  Fate. 

And,  thinking,  he  showed  his  teeth  again  in  that 
noiseless  snicker  which  was  his  smile  and  laughter  too. 

The  girl  regarded  him  for  a  moment,  then  deliber 
ately  mimicked  his  smile: 

"The  dogs  of  Stamboul  laugh  that  way,  too,"  she 

16 


CLAIRE-DE-LUNE 


said,  baring  her  pretty  teeth.  "What  amuses  you? 
Did  the  silly  old  Von-der-Goltz  Pasha  promise  you, 
also,  a  dish  of  Eagle? — old  Von-der-Goltz  with  his 
spectacles  an  inch  thick  and  nothing  living  within  what 
he  carries  about  on  his  two  doddering  old  legs !  There's 
a  German ! — who  died  twenty  years  ago  and  still  walks 
like  a  damned  man — jingling  his  iron  crosses  and  mum 
bling  his  gums !  Is  it  a  resurrection  from  1870  come 
to  foretell  another  war?  And  why  are  these  Prussian 
vultures  gathering  here  in  Stamboul?  Can  you  tell 
me,  Ferez  ? — these  Prussians  in  Turkish  uniforms  !  Is 
there  anything  dying  or  dead  here,  that  these  buzzards 
appear  from  the  sky  and  alight?  Why  do  they  crowd 
and  huddle  in  a  circle  around  Constantinople  ?  Is  there 
something  dead  in  Persia?  Is  the  Bagdad  railroad 
dying?  Is  Enver  Bey  at  his  last  gasp?  Is  Talaat? 
Or  perhaps  the  savoury  odour  comes  from  the 
Yildiz " 

"Nihla !  Is  there  nothing  sacred — nothing  thou  fear- 
est  on  earth?" 

"Only  old  age — and  thy  smile,  my  Ferez.  Neither 
agrees  with  me."  She  stretched  her  arms  lazily. 

"Aliens,"  she  said,  stifling  a  pleasant  yawn  with  one 
slim  hand,  " — my  maid  will  wake  below  and  miss  me; 
and  then  the  dogs  of  Stamboul  yonder  will  hear  a  solo 
such  as  they  never  heard  before.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  Ferez, 
do  you  know  when  we  are  to  weigh  anchor?" 

"At  sunrise." 

"It  is  the  same  to  me," — she  yawned  again — "my 
maid  is  aboard  and  all  my  luggage.  And  my  Ferez, 
also.  .  .  .  Mon  dieu!  And  what  will  Cyril  have  to 
say  when  he  arrives  to  find  me  vanished!  It  is,  per 
haps,  well  for  us  that  we  shall  be  at  sea !" 

Her  quick  laughter  pealed ;  she  turned  with  a  careless 

17 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


gesture  of  salute,  friendly  and  contemptuous ;  and  her 
white  bernous  faded  away  in  the  moonlit  fog. 

And  Ferez  Bey  stood  staring  after  her  out  of  his 
near-set,  beady  eyes,  loving  her,  desiring  her,  fearing 
her,  unrepentant  that  he  had  sold  her,  wondering 
whether  the  day  might  dawn  when  he  would  find  it  best 
to  kill  her  for  the  prosperity  and  peace  of  mind  of  the 
only  living  being  in  whose  service  he  never  tired — 
himself. 


A  SHADOW   DANCE 

THREE  years  later  Destiny  still  wore  a  rosy  face 
for  Nihla  Quellen.     And,  for  a  young  American 
of  whom  Nihla  had  never  even  heard,  Destiny 
still  remained  the  laughing  jade  he  had  always  known, 
beckoning  him  ever  nearer,  with  the  coquettish  promise 
of  her  curved  forefinger,  to  fame  and  wealth  immeas 
urable. 

Seated  now  on  a  moonlit  lawn,  before  his  sketching 
easel,  this  optimistic  young  man,  whose  name  was 
Barres,  continued  to  observe  the  movements  of  a  dim 
white  figure  which  had  emerged  from  the  villa  opposite, 
and  was  now  stealing  toward  him  across  the  dew- 
drenched  grass. 

When  the  white  figure  was  quite  near  it  halted,  hold 
ing  up  filmy  skirts  and  peering  intently  at  him. 

"May  one  look  ?"  she  inquired,  in  that  now  celebrated 
voice  of  hers,  through  which  ever  seemed  to  sound  a 
hint  of  hidden  laughter. 

"Certainly,"  he  replied,  rising  from  his  folding  camp 
stool. 

She  tiptoed  over  the  wet  grass,  came  up  beside  him, 
gazed  down  at  the  canvas  on  his  easel. 

"Can  you  really  see  to  paint?  Is  the  moon  bright 
enough?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  But  one  has  to  be  familiar  with  one's  pal* 
ette." 

19 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Oh.     You  seem  to  know  yours  quite  perfectly,  mon 


sieur." 


"Enough  to  mix  colours  properly." 

"I  didn't  realise  that  painters  ever  actually  painted 
pictures  by  moonlight." 

"It's  a  sort  of  hit  or  miss  business,  but  the  notes 
made  are  interesting,"  he  explained. 

"What  do  you  do  with  these  moonlight  studies?" 

"Use  them  as  notes  in  the  studio  when  a  moonlight 
picture  is  to  be  painted." 

"Are  you  then  a  realist,  monsieur?" 

"As  much  of  a  realist  as  anybody  with  imagination 
can  be,"  he  replied,  smiling  at  her  charming,  moon 
lit  face. 

"I  understand.  Realism  is  merely  honesty  plus  the 
imagination  of  the  individual." 

"A  delightful  mot,  madam " 

"Mademoiselle,"  she  corrected  him  demurely.  "Are 
you  English?" 

"American." 

"Oh.  Then  may  I  venture  to  converse  with  you  in 
English?"  She  said  it  in  exquisite  English,  entirely 
without  accent. 

"You  are  English!"  he  exclaimed  under  his  breath. 

"No.  ...  I  don't  know  what  I  am.  .  .  .  Isn't  it 
charming  out  here?  What  particular  view  are  you 
painting?" 

"The  Seine,  yonder." 

She  bent  daintily  over  his  sketch,  holding  up  the 
skirts  of  her  ball-gown. 

"Your  sketch  isn't  very  far  advanced,  is  it?"  she 
inquired  seriously. 

"Not  very,"  he  smiled. 

They  stood  there  together  in  silence  for  a  while, 

20 


A  SHADOW  DANCE 


looking  out  over  the  moonlit  river  to  the  misty,  tree- 
covered  heights. 

Through  lighted  rows  of  open  windows  in  the  elab 
orate  little  villa  across  the  lawn  came  lively  music  and 
the  distant  noise  of  animated  voices. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  ventured  smilingly,  "that  your 
skirts  and  slippers  are  soaking  wet?" 

"I  don't  care.  Isn't  this  June  night  heavenly  ?" 
She  glanced  across  at  the  lighted  house.  "It's  so  hot 
and  noisy  in  there;  one  dances  only  with  discomfort. 
A  distaste  for  it  all  sent  me  out  on  the  terrace.  Then 
I  walked  on  the  lawn.  Then  I  beheld  you!  .  .  .  Am 
I  interrupting  your  work,  monsieur?  I  suppose  I  am.'* 
She  looked  up  at  him  naively. 

He  said  something  polite.  An  odd  sense  of  having 
seen  her  somewhere  possessed  him  now.  From  the  dis 
tant  house  came  the  noisy  American  music  of  a  two- 
step.  With  charming  grace,  still  inspecting  him  out  of 
her  dark  eyes,  the  girl  began  to  move  her  pretty  feet  in 
rhythm  with  the  music. 

"Shall  we?"  she  inquired  mischievously.  .  .  .  "Un 
less  you  are  too  busy " 

The  next  moment  they  were  dancing  together  there 
on  the  wet  lawn,  under  the  high  lustre  of  the  moon, 
her  fresh  young  face  and  fragrant  figure  close  to  his. 

During  their  second  dance  she  said  serenely : 

"They'll  raise  the  dickens  if  I  stay  here  any  longer. 
Do  you  know  the  Comte  d'Eblis?" 

"The  Senator?    The  numismatist?" 

"Yes." 

"No,  I  don't  know  him.  I  am  only  a  Latin  Quarter 
student." 

"Well,  he  is  giving  that  party.  He  is  giving  it  for 
me — in  my  honour.  That  is  his  villa.  And  I" — 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


she  laughed — "am  going  to  marry  him — perhaps!  Isn't 
this  a  delightful  escapade  of  mine?" 

"Isn't  it  rather  an  indiscreet  one?"  he  asked  smil 
ingly. 

"Frightfully.  But  I  like  it.  How  did  you  happen 
to  pitch  your  easel  on  his  lawn?" 

"The  river  and  the  hills — their  composition  appealed 
to  me  from  here.  It  is  the  best  view  of  the  Seine." 

"Are  you  glad  you  came?" 

They  both  laughed  at  the  mischievous  question. 

During  their  third  dance  she  became  a  little  appre 
hensive  and  kept  looking  over  her  shoulder  toward  the 
house. 

"There's  a  man  expected  there,"  she  whispered,  "Fer- 
ez  Bey.  He's  as  soft-footed  as  a  cat  and  he  always 
prowls  in  my  vicinity.  At  times  it  almost  seems  to 
me  as  though  he  were  slyly  watching  me — as  though  he 
were  employed  to  keep  an  eye  on  me." 

"A  Turk?" 

"Eurasian.  ...  I  wonder  what  they  think  of  my 
absence?  Alexandre — the  Comte  d'Eblis — won't  like 
it." 

"Had  you  better  go?" 

"Yes;  I  ought  to,  but  I  won't.  .  .  .  Wait  a  mo 
ment  !"  She  disengaged  herself  from  his  arms.  "Hide 
your  easel  and  colour-box  in  the  shrubbery,  in  case 
anybody  comes  to  look  for  me." 

She  helped  him  strap  up  and  fasten  the  telescope- 
easel;  they  placed  the  paraphernalia  behind  the  blos 
soming  screen  of  syringa.  Then,  coming  together,  she 
gave  herself  to  him  again,  nestling  between  his  arms 
with  a  little  laugh;  and  they  fell  into  step  once  more 
with  the  distant  dance-music.  Over  the  grass  their 
united  shadows  glided,  swaying,  gracefully  interlocked 


A  SHADOW  DANCE 


— moon-born  phantoms  which  dogged  their  light  young 
feet.  .  .  . 

A  man  came  out  on  the  stone  terrace  under  the  Chi 
nese  lanterns.  When  they  saw  him  they  hastily  backed 
into  the  obscurity  of  the  shrubbery. 

"Nihla!"  he  called,  and  his  heavy  voice  was  vibrant 
with  irritation  and  impatience. 

He  was  a  big  man.  He  walked  with  a  bulky,  awk 
ward  gait — a  few  paces  only,  out  across  the  terrace. 

"Nihla!"  he  bawled  hoarsely. 

Then  two  other  men  and  a  woman  appeared  on  the 
terrace  where  the  lanterns  were  strung.  The  woman 
called  aloud  in  the  darkness : 

"Nihla!  Nihla!  Where  are  you,  little  devil?"  Then 
she  and  the  two  men  with  her  went  indoors,  laughing 
and  skylarking,  leaving  the  bulky  man  there  alone. 

The  young  fellow  in  the  shrubbery  felt  the  girl's 
hand  tighten  on  his  coat  sleeve,  felt  her  slender  body 
quiver  with  stifled  laughter.  The  desire  to  laugh  seized 
him,  too ;  and  they  clung  there  together,  choking  back 
their  mirth  while  the  big  man  who  had  first  appeared 
waddled  out  across  the  lawn  toward  the  shrubbery, 
shouting : 

"Nihla!  Where  are  you  then?"  He  came  quite  close 
to  where  they  stood,  then  turned,  shouted  once  or  twice 
and  presently  disappeared  across  the  lawn  toward  a 
walled  garden.  Later,  several  other  people  came  out 
on  the  terrace,  calling,  "Nihla,  Nihla,"  and  then  went 
indoors,  laughing  boisterously. 

The  young  fellow  and  the  girl  beside  him  were  now 
quite  weak  and  trembling  with  suppressed  mirth. 

They  had  not  dared  venture  out  on  the  lawn,  al 
though  dance  music  had  begun  again. 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Is  it  your  name  they  called?"  he  asked,  his  eyes 
very  intent  upon  her  face. 

"Yes,  Nihla." 

"I  recognise  you  now,"  he  said,  with  a  little  thrill 
of  wonder. 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  replied  with  amiable  indifference. 
"Everybody  knows  me." 

She  did  not  ask  his  name;  he  did  not  offer  to  en 
lighten  her.  What  difference,  after  all,  could  the  name 
of  an  American  student  make  to  the  idol  of  Europe, 
Nihla  Quellen? 

"I'm  in  a  mess,"  she  remarked  presently.  "He  will 
be  quite  furious  with  me.  It  is  going-  to  be  most  dis 
agreeable  for  me  to  go  back  into  that  house.  He  has 
really  an  atrocious  temper  when  made  ridiculous." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said,  sobered  by  her  serious 
ness. 

She  laughed: 

"Oh,  pouf !  I  really  don't  care.  But  perhaps  you 
had  better  leave  me  now.  I've  spoiled  your  moonlight 
picture,  haven't  I?" 

"But  think  what  you  have  given  me  to  make  amends !" 
he  replied. 

She  turned  and  caught  his  hands  in  hers  with  ador 
able  impulsiveness: 

"You're  a  sweet  boy — do  you  know  it !  We've  had 
a  heavenly  time,  haven't  we?  Do  you  really  think  you 
ought  to  go — so  soon?" 

"Don't  you  think  so,  Nihla  ?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go.  Anyway,  there's  a  train 
every  two  hours " 

"I've  a  canoe  down  by  the  landing.  I  shall  paddle 
back  as  I  came " 

"A  canoe!"  she  exclaimed,  enchanted.  "Will  you 
take  me  with  you?" 


A  SHADOW  DANCE 


"To  Paris?" 

"Of  course!     Will  you?" 

"In  your  ball-gown?" 

"I'd  adore  it!     Will  you?" 

"That  is  an  absolutely  crazy  suggestion,"  he  said. 

"I  know  it.  The  world  is  only  a  big  asylum.  There's 
a  path  to  the  river  behind  these  bushes.  Quick — pick 
up  your  painting  traps " 

"But,  Nihla,  dear " 

"Oh,  please !     I'm  dying  to  run  away  with  you !" 

"To  Paris?"  he  demanded,  still  incredulous  that  the 
girl  really  meant  it. 

"Of  course!  You  can  get  a  taxi  at  the  Pont-au- 
Change  and  take  me  home.  Will  you?" 

"It  would  be  wonderful,  of  course " 

"It  will  be  paradise !"  she  exclaimed,  slipping  her 
hand  into  his.  "Now,  let  us  run  like  the  dickens !" 

In  the  uncertain  moonlight,  filtering  through  the 
shrubbery,  they  found  a  hidden  path  to  the  river;  and 
they  took  it  together,  lightly,  swiftly,  speeding  down 
the  slope,  all  breathless  with  laughter,  along  the  moon 
lit  way. 

In  the  suburban  villa  of  the  Comte  d'Eblis  a  wine- 
flushed  and  very  noisy  company  danced  on,  supped  at 
midnight,  continued  the  revel  into  the  starlit  morning 
hours.  The  place  was  a  jungle  of  confetti. 

Their  host,  restless,  mortified,  angry,  perplexed  by 
turns,  was  becoming  obsessed  at  length  with  dull  pre 
monitions  and  vaguer  alarms. 

He  waddled  out  to  the  lawn  several  times,  still  wear 
ing  his  fancy  gilt  and  tissue  cap,  and  called: 

"Nihla  !     Damnation !     Answer  me,  you  little  fool !" 

He  went  down  to  the  river,  where  the  gaily  painted 
row-boats  and  punts  lay,  and  scanned  the  silvered 

25 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


flood,  tortured  by  indefinite  apprehensions.  About 
dawn  he  started  toward  the  weed-grown,  slippery  river- 
stairs  for  the  last  time,  still  crowned  with  his  tinsel 
cap ;  and  there  in  the  darkness  he  found  his  aged  boat 
man,  fishing  for  gudgeon  with  a  four-cornered  net  sus 
pended  to  the  end  of  a  bamboo  pole. 

"Have  you  see  anything  of  Mademoiselle  Nihla?" 
he  demanded,  in  a  heavy,  unsteady  voice,  tremulous  with 
indefinable  fears. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,  Mademoiselle  Quellen  went  out 
in  a  canoe  with  a  young  gentleman." 

"W-what  is  that  you  tell  me!"  faltered  the  Comte 
d'Eblis,  turning  grey  in  the  face. 

"Last  night,  about  ten  o'clock,  M'sieu  le  Comte.  I 
was  out  in  the  moonlight  fishing  for  eels.  She  came 
down  to  the  shore — took  a  canoe  yonder  by  the  wil 
lows.  The  young  man  had  a  double-bladed  paddle. 
They  were  singing." 

"They — they  have  not  returned?" 

"No,  M'sieu  le  Comte " 

"Who  was  the— man?" 

"I  could  not  see " 

"Very  well."  He  turned  and  looked  down  the  dusky 
river  out  of  light-coloured,  murderous  eyes.  Then,  al 
ways  awkward  in  his  gait,  he  retraced  his  steps  to  the 
house.  There  a  servant  accosted  him  on  the  terrace: 

"The  telephone,  if  Monsieur  le  Comte  pleases " 

"Who  is  calling?"  he  demanded  with  a  flare  of  fury. 

"Paris,  if  it  pleases  Monsieur  le  Comte." 

The  Count  d'Eblis  went  to  his  own  quarters,  seated 
himself,  and  picked  up  the  receiver: 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked  thickly. 

"Max  Freund." 

"What  has  h-happened?"  he  stammered  in  sudden 
terror. 


A  SHADOW  DANCE 


Over  the  wire  came  the  distant  reply,  perfectly  clear 
and  distinct: 

"Ferez  Bey  was  arrested  in  his  own  house  at  dinner 
last  evening,  and  was  immediately  conducted  to  the 
frontier,  escorted  by  Government  detectives.  ...  Is 
Nihla  with  you?" 

The  Count's  teeth  were  chattering  now.  He  man 
aged  to  say: 

"No,  I  don't  know  where  she  is.  She  was  dancing. 
Then,  ah1  at  once,  she  was  gone.  Of  what  was  Colonel 
Ferez  suspected?" 

"I  don't  know.     But  perhaps  we  might  guess." 

"Are  you  followed?" 

"Yes." 

«By— by  whom?" 

"By  Souchez.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  if  I  don't  see  you.  I 
join  Ferez.  And  look  out  for  Nihla.  She'll  trick  you 
yet!" 

The  Count  d'Eblis  called: 

"Wait,  for  God's  sake,  Max !" — listened ;  called  again 
in  vain.  "The  one-eyed  rabbit !"  he  panted,  breathing 
hard  and  irregularly.  %His  large  hand  shook  as  he 
replaced  the  instrument.  He  sat  there  as  though  par 
alysed,  for  a  moment  or  two.  Mechanically  he  re 
moved  his  tinsel  cap  and  thrust  it  into  the  pocket  of 
his  evening  coat.  Suddenly  the  dull  hue  of  anger  dyed 
neck,  ears  and  temple: 

"By  God !"  he  gasped.  "What  is  that  she-devil  try 
ing  to  do  to  me?  What  has  she  done!" 

After  another  moment  of  staring  fixedly  at  noth 
ing,  he  opened  the  table  drawer,  picked  up  a  pistol  and 
poked  it  into  his  breast  pocket. 

Then  he  rose,  heavily,  and  stood  looking  out  of  the 
window  at  the  paling  east,  his  pendulous  under  lip 
a-quiver. 


II 


SUNRISE 

THE  first  sunbeams  had  already  gilded  her  bed 
room  windows,  barring  the  drawn  curtains  with 
light,  when  the  man  arrived.  He  was  still  wear 
ing  his  disordered  evening  dress  under  a  light  over 
coat;  his  soiled  shirt  front  was  still  crossed  by  the  red 
ribbon  of  watered  silk ;  third  class  orders  striped  his 
breast,  where  also  the  brand  new  Turkish  sunburst 
glimmered. 

A  sleepy  maid  in  night  attire  answered  his  furious 
ringing;  the  man  pushed  her  aside  with  an  oath  and 
strode  into  the  semi-darkness  of  the  corridor.  He  was 
nearly  six  feet  tall,  bulky ;  but  his  legs  were  either 
too  short  or  something  else  was  the  matter  with  them, 
for  when  he  walked  he  waddled,  breathing  noisily  from 
the  ascent  of  the  stairs. 

"Is  your  mistress  here?"  he  demanded,  hoarse  with 
his  effort. 

"Y-yes,  monsieur " 

"When  did  she  come  in?"  And,  as  the  scared  and 
bewildered  maid  hesitated:  "Damn  you,  answer  me! 
When  did  Mademoiselle  Quellen  come  in?  I'll  wring 
your  neck  if  you  lie  to  me !" 

The  maid  began  to  whimper: 

"Monsieur  le  Comte — I  do  not  wish  to  lie  to 
you.  .  .  .  Mademoiselle  Nihla  came  back  with  the 
dawn " 

"Alone?" 


SUNRISE 


The  maid  wrung  her  hands : 

"Does  Monsieur  le  Comte  m-mean  to' harm  her?" 

"Will  you  answer  me,  you  snivelling  cat !"  he  panted 
between  his  big,  discoloured  teeth.  He  had  fished  out 
a  pistol  from  his  breast  pocket,  dragging  with  it  a 
silk  handkerchief,  a  fancy  cap  of  tissue  and  gilt,  and 
some  streamers  of  confetti  which  fell  to  the  carpet 
around  his  feet. 

"Xow,"  he  breathed  in  a  half-strangled  voice,  "an 
swer  my  questions.  Was  she  alone  when  she  came  in?" 

"N-no." 

"Who  was  with  her?" 

"A— a " 

"A  man?" 

The  maid  trembled  violently  and  nodded. 

"What  man?" 

"M-Monsieur  le  Comte,  I  have  never  before  beheld 
him " 

"You  lie!" 

"I  do  not  lie!  I  have  never  before  seen  him,  Mon 
sieur  le " 

"Did  you  learn  his  name?" 
«v"o »j 

"Did  you  hear  what  they  said?" 

"They  spoke  in  English " 

"What!"  The  man's  puffy  face  went  flabby  white, 
and  his  big,  badly  made  frame  seemed  to  sag  for  a  mo 
ment.  He  laid  a  large  fat  hand  flat  against  the  wall, 
as  though  to  support  and  steady  himself,  and  gazed 
dully  at  the  terrified  maid. 

And  she,  shivering  in  her  night-robe  and  naked  feet, 
stared  back  into  the  pallid  face,  with  its  coarse, 
greyish  moustache  and  little  short  side-whiskers  which 
vulgarized  it  completely — gazed  in  unfeigned  terror  at 
the  sagging,  deadly,  lead-coloured  eyes. 

29 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Is  the  man  there — in  there  now — with  her?"  de 
manded  the  Comte  d'Eblis  heavily. 

"No,  monsieur." 

"Gone?" 

"Oh,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  the  young  man  stayed  but 
a  moment " 

"Where  were  they?     In  her  bedroom?" 

"In  the  salon.  I — I  served  a  pate — a  glass  of  wine 
— and  the  young  gentleman  was  gone  the  next  min 
ute " 

A  dull  red  discoloured  the  neck  and  features  of  the 
Count. 

"That's  enough,"  he  said;  and  waddled  past  her 
along  the  corridor  to  the  furthest  door;  and  wrenched 
it  open  with  one  powerful  jerk. 

In  the  still,  golden  gloom  of  the  drawn  curtains, 
now  striped  with  sunlight,  a  young  girl  suddenly  sat 
up  in  bed. 

"Alexandre!"  she  exclaimed  in  angry  astonishment. 

"You  slut !"  he  said,  already  enraged  again  at  the 
mere  sight  of  her.  "Where  did  you  go  last  night!" 

"What  are  you  doing  in  my  bedroom?"  she  de 
manded,  confused  but  flushed  with  anger.  "Leave  it ! 
Do  you  hear ! — "  She  caught  sight  of  the  pistol  in  his 
hand  and  stiffened. 

He  stepped  nearer;  her  dark,  dilated  gaze  remained 
fixed  on  the  pistol. 

"Answer  me,"  he  said,  the  menacing  roar  rising  in 
his  voice.  "Where  did  you  go  last  night  when  you  left 
the  house?" 

"I — I  went  out — on  the  lawn." 

"And  then?" 

"I  had  had  enough  of  your  party:  I  came  back  to 
Paris." 

"And  then?" 

80 


SUNRISE 


"I  came  here,  of  course. " 

"Who  was  with  you?" 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  she  began  to  comprehend. 
She  swallowed  desperately. 

"Who  was  your  companion?"  he  repeated. 

"A— man." 

"You  brought  him  here?" 

"He — came  in — for  a  moment." 

"Who  was  he?" 

"I — never  before  saw  him." 

"You  picked  up  a  man  in  the  street  and  brought  him 
here  with  you?" 

"N-not  on  the  street " 

"Where?" 

"On  the  lawn — while  your  guests  were  dancing" " 

"And  you  came  to  Paris  with  him?" 

"Y-yes." 

"Who  was  he?" 

"I  don't  know " 

"If  you  don't  name  him,  I'll  kill  you!"  he  yelled, 
losing  the  last  vestige  of  self-control.  "What  kind  of 
story  are  you  trying  to  tell  me,  you  lying  drab !  You've 
got  a  lover!  Confess  it!" 

"I  have  not!" 

"Liar !  So  this  is  how  you've  laughed  at  me,  mocked 
me,  betrayed  me,  made  a  fool  of  me !  You ! — with  your 
fierce  little  snappish  ways  of  a  virgin !  You  with  your 
dangerous  airs  of  a  tiger-cat  if  a  man  so  much  as  laid 
a  finger  on  your  vicious  body !  So  Mademoiselle-Don't- 
touch-me  had  a  lover  all  the  while.  Max  Freund  warned 
me  to  keep  an  eye  on  you !"  He  lost  control  of  himself 
again;  his  voice  became  a  hoarse  shout:  "Max  Freund 
begged  me  not  to  trust  you !  You  filthy  little  beast ! 
Good  God!  Was  I  crazy  to  believe  in  you — to  talk 
without  reserve  in  your  presence!  What  kind  of  im- 

31 


THE  MOONLIT  WAT 


becile  was  I  to  offer  you  marriage  because  I  was  crazy 
enough  to  believe  that  there  was  no  other  way  to  pos 
sess  you !  You — a  Levantine  dancing  girl — a  common 
painted  thing  of  the  public  footlights — a  creature  of 
brasserie  and  cabaret !  And  you  posed  as  Mademoiselle 
Nitouche !  A  novice !  A  devotee  of  chastity !  And,  by 
God,  your  devilish  ingenuity  at  last  persuaded  me  that 
you  actually  were  what  you  said  you  were.  And  all 
Paris  knew  you  were  fooling  me — all  Paris  was  laugh 
ing  in  its  dirty  sleeve — mocking  me — spitting  on 

^^^  ;) 

"All  Paris,"  she  said,  in  an  unsteady  voice,  "gave 
you  credit  for  being  my  lover.  And  I  endured  it.  And 
you  knew  it  was  not  true.  Yet  you  never  denied  it. 
.  .  .  But  as  for  me,  I  never  had  a  lover.  When  I  told 
you  that  I  told  you  the  truth.  And  it  is  true  to-day 
as  it  was  yesterday.  Nobody  believes  it  of  a  dancing 
girl.  Now,  you  no  longer  believe  it.  Very  well,  there 
is  no  occasion  for  melodrama.  I  tried  to  fall  in  love 
with  you:  I  couldn't.  I  did  not  desire  to  marry  you. 
You  insisted.  Very  well;  you  can  go." 

"Not  before  I  learn  the  name  of  your  lover  of  last 
night!"  he  retorted,  now  almost  beside  himself  with 
fury,  and  once  more  menacing  her  with  his  pistol.  "I'll 
get  that  much  change  out  of  all  the  money  I've  lavished 
on  you!"  he  yelled.  "Tell  me  his  name  or  I'll  kill 
you!" 

She  reached  under  her  pillow,  clutched  a  jewelled 
watch  and  purse,  and  hurled  them  at  him.  She  twisted 
from  her  arm  a  gemmed  bracelet,  tore  every  flashing 
ring  from  her  fingers,  and  flung  them  in  a  handful 
straight  at  his  head. 

"There's  some  more  change  for  you!"  she  panted. 
"Now,  leave  my  bedroom!" 

"I'll  have  that  man's  name  first!" 

32 


SUNRISE 


The  girl  laughed  in  his  distorted  face.  He  was 
within  an  ace  of  shooting  her — of  firing  point-blank 
into  the  lovely,  flushed  features,  merely  to  shatter  them, 
destroy,  annihilate.  He  had  the  desire  to  do  it.  But  her 
breathless,  contemptuous  laugh  broke  that  impulse — re 
laxed  it,  leaving  it  flaccid.  And  after  an  interval  some 
thing  else  intervened  to  stay  his  hand  at  the  trigger — • 
something  that  crept  into  his  mind;  something  he  had 
begun  to  suspect  that  she  knew.  Suddenly  he  became 
convinced  that  she  did  know  it — that  she  believed  that 
he  dared  not  kill  her  and  stand  the  investigation  of  a 
public  trial  before  a  juge  d 'instruction — that  he  could 
not  afford  to  have  his  own  personal  affairs  scrutinised 
too  closely. 

He  still  wanted  to  kill  her — shoot  her  there  where 
she  sat  in  bed,  watching  him  out  of  scornful  young 
eyes.  So  intense  was  his  need  to  slay — to  disfigure, 
brutalise  this  girl  who  had  mocked  him,  that  the  raging 
desire  hurt  him  physically^  He  leaned  back,  resting 
against  the  silken  wall,  momentarily  weakened  by  the 
violence  of  passion.  But  his  pistol  still  threatened  her. 

No ;  he  dared  not.  There  was  a  better,  surer  way  to 
utterly  destroy  her, — a  way  he  had  long  ago  prepared, 
— not  expecting  any  such  contingency  as  this,  but 
merely  as  a  matter  of  self-insurance. 

His  levelled  weapon  wavered,  dropped,  held  loosely 
now.  He  still  glared  at  her  out  of  pallid  and  blood 
shot  eyes  in  silence.  After  a  while: 

"You  hell-cat,"  he  said  slowly  and  distinctly.  "Who 
is  your  English  lover?  Tell  me  his  name  or  I'll  beat 
your  face  to  a  pulp!" 

"I  have  no  English  lover." 

"Do  you  think,"  he  went  on  heavily,  disregarding 
her  reply,  "that  I  don't  know  why  you  chose  an  Eng- 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


lishman?  You  thought  you  could  blackmail  me,  didn't 
you?" 

"How?"  she  demanded  wearily. 

Again  he  ignored  her  reply: 

"Is  he  one  of  the  Embassy?"  he  demanded.  "Is  he 
some  emissary  of  Grey's?  Does  he  come  from  their 
intelligence  department?  Or  is  he  only  a  police  jackal? 
Or  some  lesser  rat?" 

She  shrugged;  her  night-robe  slipped  and  she  drew 
it  over  her  shoulder  with  a  quick  movement.  And  the 
man  saw  the  deep  blush  spreading  over  face  and  throat. 

"By  God !"  he  said,  "you  are  an  actress  !  I  admit  it. 
But  now  you  are  going  to  learn  something  about  real 
life.  You  think  you've  got  me,  don't  you? — you  and 
your  Englishman?  Because  I  have  been  fool  enough 
to  trust  you — hide  nothing  from  you — act  frankly 
and  openly  in  your  presence.  You  thought  you'd  get 
a  hold  on  me,  so  that  if  I  ever  caught  you  at  your 
treacherous  game  you  could  defy  me  and  extort  from 
me  the  last  penny!  You  thought  all  that  out — very 
thriftily  and  cleverly — you  and  your  Englishman  be 
tween  you — didn't  you?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.'* 

"Don't  you?  Then  why  did  you  ask  me  the  other 
day  whether  it  was  not  German  money  which  was  pay 
ing  for  the  newspaper  which  I  bought?" 

"The  Mot  d'Ordre?" 

"Certainly." 

"I  asked  you  that  because  Ferez  Bey  is  notoriously 
in  Germany's  pay.  And  Ferez  Bey  financed  the  af 
fair.  You  said  so.  Besides,  you  and  he  discussed  it 
before  me  in  my  own  salon." 

"And  you  suspected  that  I  bought  the  Mot  d'Ordre 
with  German  money  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  out 
German  propaganda  in  a  Paris  daily  paper?" 


SUNRISE 


"I  don't  know  why  Ferez  Bey  gave  you  the  money 
to  buy  it." 

"He  did  not  give  me  the  money." 

"You  said  so.     Who  did?" 

"You!"  he  fairly  yelled. 

"W-what !"  stammered  the  girl,  confounded. 

"Listen  to  me,  you  rat!"  he  said  fiercely.  "I  was 
not  such  a  fool  as  you  believed  me  to  be.  I  lavished 
money  on  you ;  you  made  a  fortune  for  yourself  out  of 
your  popularity,  too.  Do  you  remember  endorsing  a 
cheque  drawn  to  your  order  by  Ferez  Bey?" 

"Yes.  You  had  borrowed  every  penny  I  possessed. 
You  said  that  Ferez  Bey  owed  you  as  much.  So  I  ac 
cepted  his  cheque " 

"That  cheque  paid  for  the  Mot  d'Ordre.  It  is  drawn 
to  your  order;  it  bears  your  endorsement;  the  Mot 
d'Ordre  was  purchased  in  your  name.  And  it  was  Max 
Freund  who  insisted  that  I  take  that  precaution.  Now, 
try  to  blackmail  me ! — you  and  your  English  spy !"  he 
cried  triumphantly,  his  voice  breaking  into  a  squeak. 

Not  yet  understanding,  merely  conscious  of  some 
vague  and  monstrous  danger,  the  girl  sat  motionless, 
regarding  him  intently  out  of  beautiful,  intelligent 
eyes. 

He  burst  into  laughter,  made  falsetto  by  the  hys 
teria  of  sheer  hatred: 

"That's  where  you  are  now!"  he  said,  leering  down 
at  her.  "Every  paper  I  ever  made  you  sign  incrimi 
nates  you ;  your  cancelled  cheque  is  in  the  same  packet ; 
your  dossier  is  damning  and  complete.  You  didn't 
know  that  Ferez  Bey  was  sent  across  the  frontier  yes 
terday,  did  you?  Your  English  spy  didn't  inform  you 
last  night,  did  he?" 

"N-no." 

"You  lie!  You  did  know  it!  That  was  why  you 

35 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


stole  away  last  night  and  met  your  j  ackal — to  sell  him 
something  besides  yourself,  this  time!  You  knew  they 
had  arrested  Ferez !  I  don't  know  how  you  knew  it, 
but  you  did.  And  you  told  your  lover.  And  both  of 
you  thought  you  had  me  at  last,  didn't  you?" 

"I — what  are  you  trying  to  say  to  me — do  to  me?" 
she  stammered,  losing  colour  for  the  first  time. 

"Put  you  where  you  belong — you  dirty  spy !"  he  said 
with  grinning  ferocity.  "If  there  is  to  be  trouble,  I've 
prepared  for  it.  When  they  try  you  for  espionage, 
they'll  try  you  as  a  foreigner — a  dancing  girl  in  the 
pay  of  Germany — as  my  mistress  whom  Max  Freund 
and  I  discover  in  treachery  to  France,  and  whom  I  in 
stantly  denounce  to  the  proper  authorities !" 

He  shoved  his  pistol  into  his  breast  pocket  and  put 
on  his  marred  silk  hat. 

"Which  do  you  think  they  will  believe — you  or  the 
Count  d'Eblis?"  he  demanded,  the  nervous  leer  twitch 
ing  at  his  heavy  lips.  "Which  do  you  think  they  will 
believe — your  denials  and  counter-accusations  against 
me,  or  Max  Freund's  corroboration,  and  the  evidence 
of  the  packet  I  shall  now  deliver  to  the  authorities — 
the  packet  containing  every  cursed  document  necessary 
to  convict  you! — you  filthy  little " 

The  girl  bounded  from  her  bed  to  the  floor,  her  dark 
eyes  blazing: 

"Damn  you!"  she  said.     "Get  out  of  my  bedroom!" 

Taken  aback,  he  retreated  a  pace  or  two,  and,  at 
the  furious  menace  of  the  little  clenched  fist,  stepped 
another  pace  out  into  the  corridor.  The  door  crashed 
in  his  face;  the  bolt  shot  home. 

In  twenty  minutes  Nihla  Quellen,  the  celebrated  and 
adored  of  European  capitals,  crept  out  of  the  street 


SUNRISE 


door.     She  wore  the  dress  of  a  Finistere  peasant ;  her 
hair  was  grey,  her  step  infirm. 

The  commissaire,  two  agents  de  police,  and  a  Gov 
ernment  detective,  one  Souchez,  already  on  their  way 
to  identify  and  arrest  her,  never  even  glanced  at  the 
shabby,  infirm  figure  which  hobbled  past  them  on  the 
sidewalk  and  feebly  mounted  an  omnibus  marked  Gare 
du  Nord. 

For  a  long  time  Paris  was  carefully  combed  for  the 
dancer,  Nihla  Quellen,  until  more  serious  affairs  occu 
pied  the  authorities,  and  presently  the  world  at  large. 
For,  in  a  few  weeks,  war  burst  like  a  clap  of  thunder 
over  Europe,  leaving  the  whole  world  stunned  and  reel 
ing.  The  dossier  of  Nihla  Quellen,  the  dancing  girl, 
was  tossed  into  secret  archives,  together  with  the  dos 
sier  of  one  Ferez  Bey,  an  Eurasian,  now  far  beyond 
French  jurisdiction,  and  already  very  industrious  in 
the  United  States  about  God  knows  what,  in  company 
with  one  Max  Freund. 

As  for  Monsieur  the  Count  d'Eblis,  he  remained  a 
senator,  an  owner  of  many  third-rate  decorations,  and 
of  the  Mot  d'Ordre. 

And  he  remained  on  excellent  terms  with  everybody 
at  the  Swedish,  Greek,  and  Bulgarian  legations,  and  the 
Turkish  Embassy,  too.  And  continued  in  cipher  com 
munication  with  Max  Freund  and  Ferez  Bey  in  Amer 
ica. 

Otherwise,  he  was  still  president  of  the  Numismatic 
Society  of  Spain,  and  he  continued  to  add  to  his  won 
derful  collection  of  coins,  and  to  keep  up  his  volumi 
nous  numismatic  correspondence. 

He  was  growing  stouter,  too,  which  increased  his 
spinal  waddle  when  he  walked;  and  he  became  very 

SI 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


prosperous  financially,  through  fortunate  "operations," 
as  he  explained,  with  one  Bolo  Pasha. 

He  had  only  one  regret  to  interfere  with  his  sleep 
and  his  digestion;  he  was  sorry  he  had  not  fired  his 
pistol  into  the  youthful  face  of  Nihla  Quellen.  He 
should  have  avenged  himself,  taken  his  chances,  and 
above  everything  else  he  should  have  destroyed  her 
beauty.  His  timidity  and  caution  still  caused  him  deep 
and  bitter  chagrin. 

For  nearly  a  year  he  heard  absolutely  nothing  con 
cerning  her.  Then  one  day  a  letter  arrived  from  Ferez 
Bey  through  Max  Freund,  both  being  in  New  York. 
And  when,  using  his  key  to  the  cipher,  he  extracted  the 
message  it  contained,  he  had  learned,  among  other 
things,  that  Nihla  Quellen  was  in  New  York,  employed 
as  a  teacher  in  a  school  for  dancing. 

The  gist  of  his  reply  to  Ferez  Bey  was  that  Nihla 
Quellen  had  already  outlived  her  usefulness  on  earth, 
and  that  Max  Freund  should  attend  to  the  matter  at 
the  first  favourable  opportunity. 


Ill 


SUNSET 


ON  the  edge  of  evening  she  came  out  of  the  Palace 
of  Mirrors  and  crossed  the  wet  asphalt,  which 
already  reflected  primrose  lights  from  a  clear 
ing  western  sky. 

A  few  moments  before,  he  had  been  thinking  of  her, 
never  dreaming  that  she  was  in  America.  But  he  knew 
her  instantly,  there  amid  the  rush  and  clatter  of  the 
street,  recognised  her  even  in  the  twilight  of  the  pass 
ing  storm. — perhaps  not  alone  from  the  half-caught 
glimpse  of  her  shadowy,  averted  face,  nor  even  from 
that  young,  lissome  figure  so  celebrated  in  Europe. 
There  is  a  sixth  sense — the  sense  of  nearness  to  what 
is  familiar.  When  it  awakes  we  call  it  premonition. 

The  shock  of  seeing  her,  the  moment's  exciting  in 
credulity,  passed  before  he  became  aware  that  he  was 
already  following  her  through  swarming  metropolitan 
throngs  released  from  the  toil  of  a  long,  wet  day  in 
early  spring. 

Through  every  twilit  avenue  poured  the  crowds ; 
through  every  cross-street  a  rosy  glory  from  the  west 
was  streaming ;  and  in  its  magic  he  saw  her  immortally 
transfigured,  where  the  pink  light  suffused  the  cross 
ings,  only  to  put  on  again  her  lovely  mortality  in  the 
shadowy  avenue. 

At  Times  Square  she  turned  west,  straight  into  the 
dazzling  fire  of  sunset,  and  he  at  her  slender  heels,  not 
knowing  why,  not  even  asking  it  of  himself,  not  think 
ing,  not  caring. 

39 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


A  third  figure  followed  them  both. 

The  bronze  giants  south  of  them  stirred,  swung  their 
great  hammers  against  the  iron  bell;  strokes  of  the 
hour  rang  out  above  the  din  of  Herald  Square,  inaudi 
ble  in  the  traffic  roar  another  square  away,  lost, 
drowned  out  long  before  the  pleasant  bell-notes  pene 
trated  to  Forty-second  Street,  into  which  they  both 
had  turned. 

Yet,  as  though  occultly  conscious  that  some  hour 
had  struck  on  earth,  significant  to  her,  she  stopped, 
turned,  and  looked  back — looked  quite  through  him, 
seeing  neither  him  nor  the  one-eyed  man  who  followed 
them  both — as  though  her  line  of  vision  were  the  East 
itself,  where,  across  the  grey  sea's  peril,  a  thousand 
miles  of  cannon  were  sounding  the  hour  from  the  North 
Sea  to  the  Alps. 

He  passed  her  at  her  very  elbow — aware  of  her  near 
ness,  as  though  suddenly  close  to  a  young  orchard  in 
April.  The  girl,  too,  resumed  her  way,  unconscious 
of  him,  of  his  youthful  face  set  hard  with  controlled 
emotion. 

The  one-eyed  man  followed  them  both. 

A  few  steps  further  and  she  turned  into  the  entrance 
to  one  of  those  sprawling,  pretentious  restaurants,  the 
sham  magnificence  of  which  becomes  grimy  overnight. 
He  halted,  swung  around,  retraced  his  steps  and  fol 
lowed  her.  And  at  his  heels  two  shapes  followed  them 
very  silently — her  shadow  and  his  own — so  close  to 
gether  now,  against  the  stucco  wall  that  they  seemed 
like  Destiny  and  Fate  linked  arm  in  arm. 

The  one-eyed  man  halted  at  the  door  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  Then  he,  too,  went  in,  dogged  by  his  sinister 
shadow. 

The  red  sunset's  rays  penetrated  to  the  rotunda  and 
were  quenched  there  in  a  flood  of  artificial  light;  and 

40 


SUNSET 


there  their  sun-born  shadows  vanished,  and  three 
strange  new  shadows,  twisted  and  grotesque,  took  their 
places. 

She  continued  on  into  the  almost  empty  restaurant, 
looming  dimly  beyond.  He  followed ;  the  one-eyed  man 
followed  both. 

The  place  into  which  they  stepped  was  circular,  cen 
tred  by  a  waterfall  splashing  over  concrete  rocks.  In 
the  ruffled  pool  goldfish  glimmered,  nearly  motionless, 
and  mandarin  ducks  floated,  preening  exotic  plumage. 
,A  wilderness  of  tables  surrounded  the  pool,  set  for 
the  expected  patronage  of  the  coming  evening.  The 
girl  seated  herself  at  one  of  these. 

At  the  next  table  he  found  a  place  for  himself,  en 
tirely  unnoticed  by  her.  The  one-eyed  man  took  the 
table  behind  them.  A  waiter  presented  himself  to  take 
her  order;  another  waiter  came  up  leisurely  to  attend 
to  him.  A  third  served  the  one-eyed  man.  There  were 
only  a  few  inches  between  the  three  tables.  Yet  the 
girl,  deeply  preoccupied,  paid  no  attention  to  either 
man,  although  both  kept  their  eyes  on  her. 

But  already,  under  the  younger  man's  spellbound 
eyes,  an  odd  and  unforeseen  thing  was  occurring:  he 
gradually  became  aware  that,  almost  imperceptibly,  the 
girl  and  the  table  where  she  sat,  and  the  sleepy  waiter 
who  was  taking  her  orders,  were  slowly  moving  nearer 
to  him  on  a  floor  which  was  moving,  too. 

He  had  never  before  been  in  that  particular  restau 
rant,  and  it  took  him  a  moment  or  two  to  realise  that 
the  floor  was  one  of  those  trick  floors,  the  central 
part  of  which  slowly  revolves. 

Her  table  stood  on  the  revolving  part  of  the  floor, 
his  upon  fixed  terrain;  and  he  now  beheld  her  moving 
toward  him,  as  the  circle  of  tables  rotated  on  its  axis, 

41 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


which  was  the  waterfall  and  pool  in  the  middle  of  the 
restaurant. 

A  few  people  began  to  arrive — theatrical  people,  who 
are  obliged  to  dine  early.  Some  took  seats  at  tables 
placed  upon  the  revolving  section  of  the  floor,  others 
preferred  the  outer  circles,  where  he  sat  in  a  fixed  posi 
tion. 

Her  table  was  already  abreast  of  his,  with  only  the 
circular  crack  in  the  floor  between  them ;  he  could  easily 
have  touched  her. 

As  the  distance  began  to  widen  between  them,  the 
girl,  her  gloved  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  and  studying 
the  table-cloth  with  unseeing  gaze,  lifted  her  dark  eyes 
— looked  at  him  without  seeing,  and  once  more  gazed 
through  him  at  something  invisible  upon  which  her 
thoughts  remained  fixed — something  absorbing,  vital^ 
perhaps  tragic — for  her  face  had  become  as  colourless, 
now,  as  one  of  those  translucent  marbles,  vaguely 
warmed  by  some  buried  vein  of  rose  beneath  the  snowy 
surface. 

Slowly  she  was  being  swept  away  from  him — his  gaze 
following — hers  lost  in  concentrated  abstraction. 

He  saw  her  slipping  away,  disappearing  behind  the 
noisy  waterfall.  Around  him  the  restaurant  continued 
to  fill,  slowly  at  first,  then  more  rapidly  after  the  or 
chestra  had  entered  its  marble  gallery. 

The  music  began  with  something  Russian,  plaintive 
at  first,  then  beguiling,  then  noisy,  savage  in  its  brutal 
precision — something  sinister — a  trampling  melody 
that  was  turning  into  thunder  with  the  throb  of  doom 
all  through  it.  And  out  of  the  vicious,  Asiatic 
clangour,  from  behind  the  dash  of  too  obvious  water 
falls,  glided  the  girl  he  had  followed,  now  on  her  way 
toward  him  again,  still  seated  at  her  table,  still  gazing 
at  nothing  out  of  dark,  unseeing  eyes. 


SUNSET 


It  seemed  to  him  an  hour  before  her  table  approached 
his  own  again.  Already  she  had  been  served  by  a 
waiter — was  eating. 

He  became  aware,  then,  that  somebody  had  also 
served  him.  But  he  could  not  even  pretend  to  eat,  so 
preoccupied  was  he  by  her  approach. 

Scarcely  seeming  to  move  at  all,  the  revolving  floor 
was  steadily  drawing  her  table  closer  and  closer  to  his. 
She  was  not  looking  at  the  strawberries  which  she  was 
leisurely  eating — did  not  lift  her  eyes  as  her  table  swept 
smoothly  abreast  of  his. 

Scarcely  aware  that  he  spoke  aloud,  he  said: 

"Nihla— Nihla  Quellen!  .  .  ." 

Like  a  flash  the  girl  wheeled  in  her  chair  to  face  him. 
She  had  lost  all  her  colour.  Her  fork  had  dropped 
and  a  blood-red  berry  rolled  over  the  table-cloth  to 
ward  him. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  flushing.  "I  did  not  mean  to 
startle  you " 

The  girl  did  not  utter  a  word,  nor  did  she  move ;  but 
in  her  dark  eyes  he  seemed  to  see  her  every  sense  con 
centrated  upon  him  to  identify  his  features,  made  shad 
owy  by  the  lighted  candles  behind  his  head. 

By  degrees,  smoothly,  silently,  her  table  swept  nearer, 
nearer,  bringing  with  it  her  chair,  her  slender  person, 
her  dark,  intelligent  eyes,  so  unsmilingly  and  steadily 
intent  on  him. 

He  began  to  stammer: 

" — Two  years  ago — at — the  Villa  Tresse  d'Or — on 
the  Seine.  .  .  .  And  we  promised  to  see  each  other — in 
the  morning " 

She  said  coolly: 

"My  name  is  Thessalie  Dunois.  You  mistake  me  for 
another." 

"No,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "I  am  not  mistaken." 

43 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Her  brown  eyes  seemed  to  plunge  their  clear  regard 
into  the  depths  of  his  very  soul — not  in  recognition, 
but  in  watchful,  dangerous  defiance. 

He  began  again,  still  stammering  a  trifle: 

" — In  the  morning,  we  were  to — to  meet — at  eleven 
— near  the  fountain  of  Marie  de  Medicis — unless  you 
do  not  care  to  remember " 

At  that  her  gaze  altered  swiftly,  melted  into  the  ex 
quisite  relief  of  recognition.  Suspended  breath,  re 
leased,  parted  her  blanched  lips;  her  little  guardian 
heart,  relieved  of  fear,  beat  more  freely. 

"Are  you  Garry?" 

"Yes." 

"I  know  you  now,"  she  murmured.  "You  are  Gar 
ret  Barres,  of  the  rue  d'Eryx.  .  .  You  are  Garry!" 
A  smile  already  haunted  her  dark  young  eyes ;  colour 
was  returning  to  lip  and  cheek.  She  drew  a  deep,  noise 
less  breath. 

The  table  where  she  sat  continued  to  slip  past  him; 
the  distance  between  them  was  widening.  She  had  to 
turn  her  head  a  little  to  face  him. 

"You  do  remember  me  then,  Nihla?" 

The  girl  inclined  her  head  a  trifle.  A  smile  curved 
her  lips — lips  now  vivid  but  still  a  little  tremulous  from 
the  shock  of  the  encounter. 

"May  I  join  you  at  your  table?" 

She  smiled,  drew  a  deeper  breath,  looked  down  at  the 
strawberry  on  the  cloth,  looked  over  her  shoulder  at 
him. 

"You  owe  me  an  explanation,"  he  insisted,  leaning 
forward  to  span  the  increasing  distance  between  them. 

"Do  I?" 

"Ask  yourself." 

After  a  moment,  still  studying  him,  she  nodded  as 

44 


SUNSET 


though  the  nod  answered  some  silent  question  of  her 
own: 

"Yes,  I  owe  you  one." 

"Then  may  I  join  you?" 

"My  table  is  more  prudent  than  I.  It  is  running 
away  from  an  explanation."  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  her 
tightly  clasped  hands,  as  though  to  concentrate 
thought.  He  could  see  only  the  back  of  her  head,  white 
neck  and  lovely  dark  hair. 

Her  table  was  quite  a  distance  away  when  she  turned, 
leisurely,  and  looked  back  at  him. 

"May  I  come?"  he  asked. 

She  lifted  her  delicate  brows  in  demure  surprise. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you,"  she  said  amiably. 

The  one-eyed  man  had  never  taken  his  eyes  off  them. 


IV 

DUSK 

SHE  had  offered  him  her  hand ;  he  had  bent  over  it, 
seated  himself,  and  they  smilingly  exchanged  the 
formal   banalities   of   a  pleasantly   renewed   ac 
quaintance. 

A  waiter  laid  a  cover  for  him.  She  continued  to 
concern  herself,  leisurely,  with  her  strawberries. 

"When  did  you  leave  Paris  ?"  she  enquired. 

"Nearly  two  years  ago." 

"Before  war  was  declared?" 

"Yes,  in  June  of  that  year." 

She  looked  up  at  him  very  seriously;  but  they  both 
smiled  as  she  said: 

"It  was  a  momentous  month  for  you  then — the  month 
of  June,  1914?" 

"Very.  A  charming  young  girl  broke  my  heart  in 
1914 ;  and  so  I  came  home,  a  wreck — to  recuperate." 

At  that  she  laughed  outright,  glancing  at  his  youth 
ful,  sunburnt  face  and  lean,  vigorous  figure. 

"When  did  you  come  over?"  he  asked  curiously. 

"I  have  been  here  longer  than  you  have.  In  fact, 
I  left  France  the  day  I  last  saw  you." 

"The  same  day?" 

"I  started  that  very  same  day — shortly  after  sun 
rise.  I  crossed  the  Belgian  frontier  that  night,  and  I 
sailed  for  New  York  the  morning  after.  I  landed  here 
a  week  later,  and  I've  been  here  ever  since.  That,  mon 
sieur,  is  my  history." 

46 


DUSK 

"You've  been  here  in  New  York  for  two  years !"  he 
repeated  in  astonishment.  "Have  you  really  left  the 
stage  then?  I  supposed  you  had  just  arrived  to  fill  an 
engagement  here." 

"They  gave  me  a  try-out  this  afternoon." 

"You?     A  try-out!"  he  exclaimed,  amazed. 

She  carelessly  transfixed  a  berry  with  her  fork: 

"If  I  secure  an  engagement  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
fill  it  ...  and  my  stomach,  also.  If  I  don't  secure 
one — well — charity  or  starvation  confronts  me." 

He  smiled  at  her  with  easy  incredulity. 

"I  had  not  heard  that  you  were  here!"  he  repeated. 
"I've  read  nothing  at  all  about  you  in  the  papers " 

"No.  ...  I  am  here  incognito.  ...  I  have  taken 
my  sister's  name.  After  all,  your  American  public  does 
not  know  me." 

"But " 

"Wait!    I  don't  wish  it  to  know  me!" 

"But  if  you " 

The  girl's  slight  gesture  ^checked  him,  although  her 
smile  became  humorous  and  friendly: 

"Please !  We  need  not  discuss  my  future.  Only  the 
past!"  She  laughed:  "How  it  all  comes  back  to  me 
now,  as  you  speak — that  crazy  evening  of  ours  to 
gether!  What  children  we  were — two  years  ago!" 

Smilingly  she  clasped  her  hands  together  on  the 
table's  edge,  regarding  him  with  that  winning  direct 
ness  which  was  a  celebrated  part  of  her  celebrated  per 
sonality;  and  happened  to  be  natural  to  her. 

"Why  did  I  not  recognise  you  immediately  ?"  she  de 
manded  of  herself,  frowning  in  self-reproof.  "I  am 
stupid!  Also,  I  have,  now  and  then,  thought  about 

you "  She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  again  her 

face  faltered  subtly : 

"Much  has  happened  to  distract  my  memories,"  she 

47 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


added  carelessly,  impaling  a  strawberry,  " — since  you 
and  I  took  the  key  to  the  fields  and  the  road  to  the 
moon — like  the  pair  of  irresponsibles  we  were  that  night 
in  June." 

"Have  you  really  had  trouble?" 

Her  slim  figure  straightened  as  at  a  challenge,  then 
became  adorably  supple  again;  and  she  rested  her  el 
bows  on  the  table's  edge  and  took  her  cheeks  between 
her  hands. 

"Trouble?"  she  repeated,  studying  his  face.  "I  don't 
know  that  word,  trouble.  I  don't  admit  such  a  word 
to  the  honour  of  my  happy  vocabulary." 

They  both  laughed  a  little. 

She  said,  still  looking  at  him,  and  at  first  speaking 
as  though  to  herself: 

"Of  course,  you  are  that  same,  delightful  Garry! 
My  youthful  American  accomplice !  .  .  .  Quite  un 
spoiled,  still,  but  very,  very  irresponsible  .  .  .  like  all 
painters — like  all  students.  And  the  mischief  which  is 
in  me  recognised  the  mischief  in  you,  I  suppose.  .  .  . 
I  did  surprise  you  that  night,  didn't  I?  ...  And  what 
a  night !  What  a  moon !  And  how  we  danced  there  on 
the  wet  lawn  until  my  skirts  and  slippers  and  stockings 
were  drenched  with  dew !  .  .  .  And  how  we  laughed ! 
Oh,  that  full-hearted,  full-throated  laughter  of  ours! 
How  wonderful  that  we  have  lived  to  laugh  like  that! 
It  is  something  to  remember  after  death.  Just  think 
of  it! — you  and  I,  absolute  strangers,  dancing  every 
dance  there  in  the  drenched  grass  to  the  music  that 
came  through  the  open  windows.  .  .  .  And  do  you  re 
member  how  we  hid  in  the  flowering  bushes  when  my 
sister  and  the  others  came  out  to  look  for  me?  How 
they  called,  'Nihla !  Nihla !  Little  devil,  where  are  you?' 
Oh,  it  was  funny — funny !  And  to  see  him  come  out  on 
the  lawn — do  you  remember?  He  looked  so  fat  and 

48 


DUSK 


stupid  and  anxious  and  bad-tempered !  And  you  and  I 
expiring  with  stifled  laughter!  And  he,  with  his  sash, 
his  decorations  and  his  academic  palms !  He'd  have 
shot  us  both,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

They  were  laughing  unrestrainedly  now  at  the  mem 
ory  of  that  impossible  night  a  year  ago;  and  the  girl 
seemed  suddenly  transformed  into  an  irresponsible 
gamine  of  eighteen.  Her  eyes  grew  brighter  with  mis 
chief  and  laughter — laughter,  the  greatest  magician 
and  doctor  emeritus  of  them  all!  The  immortal 
restorer  of  youth  and  beauty. 

Bluish  shadows  had  gone  from  under  her  lower  lashes ; 
her  eyes  were  starry  as  a  child's. 

"Oh,  Garry,"  she  gasped,  laying  one  slim  hand  across 
his  on  the  table-cloth,  "it  was  one  of  those  encounters 
— one  of  those  heavenly  accidents  that  reconcile  one  to 
living.  ...  I  think  the  moon  had  made  me  a  perfect 
lunatic.  .  .  .  Because  you  don't  yet  know  what  I 
risked.  .  .  .  Garry !  ...  It  ruined  me — ruined  me  ut 
terly — our  night  together  under  the  June  moon!" 

"What!"  he  exclaimed,  incredulously. 

But  she  only  laughed  her  gay,  undaunted  little  laugh : 

"It  was  worth  it!  Such  moments  are  worth  any 
thing  we  pay  for  them!  I  laughed;  I  pay.  What 
of  it?" 

"But  if  I  am  partly  responsible  I  wish  to  know " 

"You  shall  know  nothing  about  it !  As  for  me,  I 
care  nothing  about  it.  I'd  do  it  again  to-night !  That 
is  living — to  go  forward,  laugh,  and  accept  what  comes 
— to  have  heart  enough,  gaiety  enough,  brains  enough 
to  seize  the  few  rare  dispensations  that  the  niggardly 
gods  fling  across  this  calvary  which  we  call  life !  Tenez, 
that  alone  is  living;  the  rest  is  making  the  endless  sta 
tions  on  bleeding  knees." 

49 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Yet,  if  I  thought — "  he  began,  perplexed  and  trou 
bled,  " — if  I  thought  that  through  my  folly " 

"Folly!  Non  pas!  Wisdom!  Oh,  my  blessed  ac 
complice!  And  do  you  remember  the  canoe?  Were 
we  indeed  quite  mad  to  embark  for  Paris  on  the  moonlit 
Seine,  you  and  I? — I  in  evening  gown,  soaked  with  dew 
to  the  knees ! — you  with  your  sketching  block  and  easel ! 
QueUe  dem&nagement  en  famitte!  Oh,  Garry,  my  friend 
of  gayer  days,  was  that  really  folly!  No,  no,  no,  it 
was  infinite  wisdom;  and  its  memory  is  helping  me  to 
live  through  this  very  moment!" 

She  leaned  there  on  her  elbows  and  laughed  across 
the  cloth  at  him.  The  mockery  began  to  dance  again 
and  glimmer  in  her  eyes : 

"After  all  I've  told  you,"  she  added,  "you  are  no 
wiser,  are  you?  You  don't  know  why  I  never  went  to 
the  Fountain  of  Marie  de  Medicis — whether  I  forgot  to 
go — whether  I  remembered  but  decided  that  I  had  had 
quite  enough  of  you.  You  don't  know,  do  you?" 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling.  The  girl's  face  grew 
gradually  serious: 

"And  you  never  heard  anything  more  about  me?" 
she  demanded. 

"No.  Your  name  simply  disappeared  from  the  bill 
boards,  kiosques,  and  newspapers." 

"And  you  heard  no  malicious  gossip?  None  about 
my  sister,  either?" 

"None." 

She  nodded: 

"Europe  is  a  senile  creature  which  forgets  overnight. 
Tant  mleux.  .  .  .  You  know,  I  shall  sing  and  dance 
under  my  sister's  name  here.  I  told  you  that,  didn't  I?" 

"Oh!     That  would  be  a  great  mistake " 

"Listen !  Nihla  Quellen  disappeared — married  some 
fat  bourgeois,  died,  perhaps," — she  shrugged, — "any- 

50 


DUSK 

thing  you  wish,  my  friend.  Who  cares  to  listen  to  what 
is  said  about  a  dancing  girl  in  all  this  din  of  war? 
Who  is  interested?" 

It  was  scarcely  a  question,  yet  her  eyes  seemed  to 
make  it  so. 

"Who  cares?"  she  repeated  impatiently.  "Who  re 
members  ?" 

"  I  have  remembered  you,"  he  said,  meeting  her  in 
tently  questioning  gaze. 

"You?  Oh,  you  are  not  like  those  others  over  there. 
Your  country  is  not  at  war.  You  still  have  leisure  to 
remember.  But  they  forget.  They  haven't  time  to  re 
member  anything — anybody — over  there.  Don't  you 
think  so?"  She  turned  in  her  chair  unconsciously,  and 
gazed  eastward.  " — They  have  forgotten  me  over 
there — "  And  her  lips  tightened,  contracted,  bitten  into 
silence. 

The  strange  beauty  of  the  girl  left  him  dumb.  He 
was  recalling,  now,  all  that  he  had  ever  heard  concern 
ing  her.  The  gossip  of  Europe  had  informed  him  that, 
though  Nihla  Quellen  was  passionately  and  devotedly 
French  in  soul  and  heart,  her  mother  had  been  one  of 
those  unmoral  and  lovely  Georgians,  and  her  father  an 
Alsatian,  named  Dunois — a  French  officer  who  entered 
the  Russian  service  ultimately,  and  became  a  hunting 
cheetah  for  the  Grand  Duke  Cyril,  until  himself  hunted 
into  another  world  by  that  old  bag  of  bones  on  the  pale 
and  shaky  nag.  His  daughter  took  the  name  of  Nihla 
Quellen  and  what  money  was  left,  and  made  her  debut 
in  Constantinople. 

As  the  young  fellow  sat  there  watching  her,  all  the 
petty  gossip  of  Europe  came  back  to  him — anecdotes, 
panegyrics,  eulogies,  scandals,  stage  chatter,  Quarter 
"divers,"  paid  reclames — all  that  he  had  ever  read  and 
heard  about  this  notorious  young  girl,  now  seated  there 

51 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


across  the  table,  with  her  pretty  head  framed  by  slen 
der,  tin  jewelled  fingers.  He  remembered  the  gems  she 
had  worn  that  June  night,  a  year  ago,  and  their  mag 
nificence. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "life  is  a  pleasantry,  a  jest,  a  bon- 
mot  flung  over  his  shoulder  by  some  god  too  drunk  with 
nectar  to  invent  a  better  joke.  Life  is  an  Olympian 
epigram  made  between  immortal  yawns.  What  do  you 
think  of  my  epigram,  Garry?" 

"I  think  you  are  just  as  clever  and  amusing  as  I 
remember  you,  Nihla." 

"Amusing  to  you,  perhaps.  But  I  don't  entertain 
myself  very  successfully.  I  don't  think  poverty  is  a 
very  funny  joke.  Do  you?" 

"Poverty!"  he  repeated,  smiling  his  unbelief. 

She  smiled  too,  displayed  her  pretty,  ringless  hands 
humorously,  for  his  inspection,  then  framed  her  oval 
face  between  them  again  and  made  a  deliberate  grimace. 

"All  gone,"  she  said.  "I  am,  as  you  say,  here  on  my 
uppers." 

"I  can't  understand,  Nihla " 

"Don't  try  to.  It  doesn't  concern  you.  Also,  please 
forget  me  as  Nihla  Quellen.  I  told  you  that  I've  taken 
my  sister's  name,  Thessalie  Dunois." 

"But  all  Europe  knows  you  as  Nihla  Quellen " 

"Listen !"  she  interrupted  sharply.  "I  have  troubles 
enough.  Don't  add  to  them,  or  I  shall  be  sorry  I  met 
you  again.  I  tell  you  my  name  is  Thessa.  Please  re 
member  it." 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  reddening  under  the  rebuke. 

She  noted  the  painful  colour  in  his  face,  then  looked 
elsewhere,  indifferently.  Her  features  remained  expres 
sionless  for  a'  while.  After  a  few  moments  she  looked 
around  at  him  again,  and  her  smile  began  to  glimmer : 

"It's  only  this,"  she  said ;  "the  girl  you  met  once  in 

52 


DUSK 


your  life — the  dancing  singing-girl  they  knew  over 
there — is  already  an  episode  to  be  forgotten.  End  her 
career  any  way  you  wish,  Garry, — natural  death,  sui 
cide — or  she  can  repent  and  take  the  veil,  if  you  like 
— or  perish  at  sea — only  end  her.  .  .  .  Please?"  she 
added,  with  the  sweet,  trailing  inflection  characteristic 
of  her. 

He  nodded,     The  girl  smiled  mischievously. 

"Don't  nod  your  head  so  owlishly  and  pretend  to  un 
derstand.  You  don't  understand.  Only  two  or  three 
people  do.  And  I  hope  they'll  believe  me  dead,  even  if 
you  are  not  polite  enough  to  agree  with  them." 

"How  can  you  expect  to  maintain  your  incognito?" 
he  insisted.  "There  will  be  plenty  of  people  in  your 
very  first  audience " 

"I  had  a  sister,  did  I  not?" 

"Was  she  your  sister? — the  one  who  danced  with 
you — the  one  called  Thessa?" 

"No.  But  the  play-bills  said  she  was.  Now,  I've 
told  you  something  that  nobody  knows  except  two  or 
three  unpleasant  devils — "  She  dropped  her  arms  on 
the  table  and  leaned  a  trifle  forward: 

"Oh,  pouf!"  she  said.  "Don't  let's  be  mysterious 
and  dramatic,  you  and  I.  I'll  tell  you:  I  gave  that 
woman  the  last  of  my  jewels  and  she  promised  to  dis 
appear  and  leave  her  name  to  me  to  use.  It  was  my 
own  name,  anyway,  Thessalie  Dunois.  Now,  you  know. 
Be  as  discreet  and  nice  as  I  once  found  you.  Will 
you?" 

"Of  course." 

"  'Of  course,'  "  she  repeated,  smiling,  and  with  a  little 
twitch  of  her  shoulders,  as  though  letting  fall  a  bur 
densome  cloak.  "Allons  !  With  a  free  heart,  then !  I 
am  Thessalie  Dunois ;  I  am  here ;  I  am  poor — don't  be 

frightened!    I  shall  not  borrow " 

53 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"That's  rotten,  Thessa!"  he  said,  turning  very  red. 

"Oh,  go  lightly,  please,  my  friend  Garry.  I  have  no 
claim  on  you.  Besides,  I  know  men " 

"You  don't  appear  to !" 

"Tiens !  Our  first  quarrel !"  she  exclaimed,  laugh- 
ingty.  "This  is  indeed  serious " 

"If  you  need  aid " 

"No,  I  don't!  Please,  why  do  you  scowl  at  me?  Do 
you  then  wish  I  needed  aid?  Yours?  Allez,  Monsieur 
Garry,  if  I  did  I'd  venture,  perhaps,  to  say  so  to  you. 
Does  that  make  amends?"  she  added  sweetly. 

She  clasped  her  white  hands  on  the  cloth  and  looked 
at  him  with  that  engaging,  humorous  little  air  which 
had  so  easily  captivated  her  audiences  in  Europe — 
that,  and  her  voice  with  the  hint  of  recklessness  ever 
echoing  through  its  sweetness  and  youthful  gaiety. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  New  York?"  she  asked. 
"Painting?" 

"I  have  a  studio,  but " 

"But  no  clients?  Is  that  it?  Pouf  I  Everybody  be 
gins  that  way.  I  sang  in  a  cafe  at  Dijon  for  five  francs 
and  my  soup!  At  Rennes  I  nearly  starved.  Oh,  yes, 
Garry,  in  spite  of  a  number  of  obliging  gentlemen  who, 
like  you,  offered — first  aid " 

"That  is  absolutely  rotten  of  you,  Thessa.  Did  I 
ever " 

"No !  For  goodness'  sake  let  me  jest  with  you  with 
out  flying  into  tempers !" 

"But " 

"Oh,  pouf !  I  shall  not  quarrel  with  you !  Whatever 
you  and  I  were  going  to  say  during  the  next  ten  minutes 
shall  remain  unsaid!  .  .  .  Now,  the  ten  minutes  are 
over;  now,  we're  reconciled  and  you  are  in  good  hu 
mour  again.  And  now,  tell  me  about  yourself,  your 

54. 


DUSK 


painting — in  other  words,  tell  me  the  things  about  your 
self  that  would  interest  a  friend." 

"Are  you?" 

"Your  friend?     Yes,  I  am — if  you  wish." 

"I  do  wish  it." 

"Then  I  am  your  friend.  I  once  had  a  wonderful 
evening  with  you.  .  .  .  I'm  having  a  very  good  time 
now.  You  were  nice  to  me,  Garry.  I  really  was  sorry 
not  to  see  you  again." 

"At  the  fountain  of  Marie  de  Medicis,"  he  said  re 
proachfully. 

"Yes.  Flatter  yourself,  monsieur,  because  I  did  not 
forget  our  rendezvous.  I  might  have  forgotten  it  easily 
enough — there  was  sufficient  excuse,  God  knows — a  girl 
awakened  by  the  crash  of  ruin — springing  out  of  bed 
to  face  the  end  of  the  world  without  a  moment's  warn 
ing — yes,  the  end  of  all  things — death,  too !  Tenez,  it 
was  permissible  to  forget  our  rendezvous  under  such 
circumstances,  was  it  not?  But — I  did  not  forget.  I 
thought  about  it  in  a  dumb,  calm  way  all  the  while — 
even  while  he  stood  there  denouncing  me,  threatening 
me,  noisy,  furious — with  the  button  of  the  Legion  in 
his  lapel — and  an  ugly  pistol  which  he  waved  in  the 
air — "  She  laughed: 

"Oh,  it  was  not  at  all  gay,  I  assure  you.  .  .  .  And 
even  when  I  took  to  my  heels  after  he  had  gone — for 
it  was  a  matter  of  life  or  death,  and  I  hadn't  a  minute 
to  lose — oh,  very  dramatic,  of  course,  for  I  ran  away 
in  disguise  and  I  had  a  frightful  time  of  it  leaving 
France!  Well,  even  then,  at  top  speed  and  scared  to 
death,  I  remembered  the  fountain  of  Marie  de  Medicis, 
and  you.  Don't  be  too  deeply  flattered.  I  remembered 
these  items  principally  because  they  had  caused  my 
downfall." 

"I?     I  caused " 

55 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"No.  /  caused  it!  It  was  I  who  went  out  on  the 
lawn.  It  was  I  who  came  across  to  see  who  was  paint 
ing  by  moonlight.  That  began  it — seeing  you  there — 
in  moonlight  bright  enough  to  read  by — bright  enough 
to  paint  by.  Oh,  Garry — and  you  were  so  good-look 
ing  !  It  was  the  moon — and  the  way  you  smiled  at  me. 
And  they  all  were  dancing  inside,  and  he  was  so  big 
and  fat  and  complacent,  dancing  away  in  there!  .  .  . 
And  so  I  fell  a  prey  to  folly." 

"Was  it  really  our  escapade  that — that  ruined  you?" 

"Well — it  was  partly  that.  Pouf !  It  is  over.  And 
I  am  here.  So  are  you.  It's  been  nice  to  see  you. 
.  .  .  Please  call  our  waiter."  She  glanced  at  her 
cheap,  leather  wrist  watch. 

As  they  rose  and  left  the  dining-room,  he  asked  her 
if  they  were  not  to  see  each  other  again.  A  one-eyed 
man,  close  behind  them,  listened  for  her  reply. 

She  continued  to  walk  on  slowly  beside  him  without 
answering,  until  they  reached  the  rotunda. 

"Do  you  wish  to  see  me  again  ?"  she  enquired  ab 
ruptly. 

"Don't  you  also  wish  it?" 

"I  don't  know,  Garry.  .  .  .  I've  been  annoyed  in 
New  York — bothered — seriously.  ...  I  can't  explain, 
but  somehow — I  don't  seem  to  wish  to  begin  a  friend 
ship  with  anybody.  .  .  ." 

"Ours  began  two  years  ago." 

"Did  it?" 

"Did  it  not,  Thessa?" 

"Perhaps.  ...  I  don't  know.  After  all — it  doesn't 
matter.  I  think — I  think  we  had  better  say  good-bye 
— until  some  happy  hazard — like  to-day's  encounter — " 
She  hesitated,  looked  up  at  him,  laughed: 

"Where  is  your  studio?"  she  asked  mischievously. 

LThe  one-eyed  man  at  their  heels  was  listening. 


IN  DRAGON  COURT 

THERE  was  a  young  moon  in  the  southwest — a 
slender  tracery  in  the  April  twilight — curved 
high  over  his  right  shoulder  as  he  walked  north 
ward  and  homeward  through  the  flare  of  Broadway. 

His  thoughts  were  still  occupied  with  the  pleasant 
excitement  of  his  encounter  with  Thessalie  Dunois ;  his 
mind  and  heart  still  responded  to  the  delightful  stimu 
lation.  Out  of  an  already  half-forgotten  realm  of  ro 
mance,  where,  often  now,  he  found  it  increasingly  diffi 
cult  to  realise  that  he  had  lived  for  five  happy  years, 
a  young  girl  had  suddenly  emerged  as  bodily  witness, 
to  corroborate,  revive,  and  refresh  his  fading  faith  in 
the  reality  of  what  once  had  been. 

Five  years  in  France! — France  with  its  clear  sun 
and  lovely  moon;  it  silver-grey  cities,  its  lilac  haze,  its 
sweet,  deep  greenness,  its  atmosphere  of  living  light ! — 
France,  the  dwelling-place  of  God  in  all  His  myriad 
aspects — in  all  His  protean  forms !  France,  the  sanc 
tuary  of  Truth  and  all  her  ancient  and  her  future 
liberties ;  France,  blossoming  domain  of  Love  in  Love's 
million  exquisite  transfigurations,  wherein  only  the  eye 
of  faith  can  recognise  the  winged  god  amid  his  camou 
flage! 

Wine-strong  winds  of  the  Western  World,  and  a  piti 
less  Western  sun  which  etches  every  contour  with  ter 
rible  precision,  leaving  nothing  to  imagination — no  deli- 

57 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


cate  mystery  to  rest  and  shelter  souls — had  swept  away 
and  partly  erased  from  his  mind  the  actuality  of  those 
five  past  years. 

Already  that  past,  of  which  he  had  been  a  part,  was 
becoming  disturbingly  unreal  to  him.  Phantoms 
haunted  its  ever-paling  sunlight;  its  scenes  were  fad 
ing;  its  voices  grew  vague  and  distant;  its  hushed 
laughter  dwindled  to  a  whisper,  dying  like  a  sigh. 

Then,  suddenly,  against  that  misty  tapestry  of  tinted 
spectres,  appeared  Thessalie  Dunois  in  the  flesh! — 
straight  out  of  the  phantom-haunted  void  had  stepped 
this  glowing  thing  of  life!  Into  the  raw  reek  and  fa 
miliar  dissonance  of  Broadway  she  had  vanished.  Small 
wonder  that  he  had  followed  her  to  keep  in  touch  with 
the  vanishing  past,  as  a  sleeper,  waking  against  his  will, 
strives  still  to  grasp  the  fragile  fabric  of  a  happy 
dream. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  Thessalie,  in  spite  of  dreams,  in  spite 
of  his  own  home-coming,  and  the  touch  of  familiar 
pavements  under  his  own  feet,  the  past,  to  Barres,  was 
utterly  dead,  the  present  strange  and  unreal,  the  future 
obscure  and  all  aflame  behind  a  world  afire  with  war. 

For  two  years,  now,  no  human  mind  in  America  had 
been  able  to  adjust  itself  to  the  new  heaven  and  the 
new  earth  which  had  sprung  into  lurid  being  at  the 
thunderclap  of  war. 

All  things  familiar  had  changed  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye ;  all  former  things  had  passed  away,  leaving  the 
stunned  brain  of  humanity  dulled  under  the  shock. 

Slowly9  by  degrees,  the  world  was  beginning  to  realise 
that  the  civilisation  of  Christ  was  being  menaced  once 
again  by  a  resurgence  from  that  ancient  land  of  legend 
where  the  wild  Hun  denned; — that  again  the  endless 
hordes  of  barbarians  were  rushing  in  on  Europe  out 
of  their  Eastern  fastnesses — hordes  which  filled  the 

58 


IN  DRAGON  COURT 


shrinking  skies  with  their  clamour,  vaunting  the  might 
of  Baal,  cheering  their  antichrist,  drenching  the  knees 
of  their  own  red  gods  with  the  blood  of  little  children. 

It  seemed  impossible  for  Americans  to  understand 
that  these  things  could  be — were  really  true — that  the 
horrors  the  papers  printed  were  actualities  happening 
to  civilised  people  like  themselves  and  their  neighbours. 

Out  of  their  own  mouths  the  German  tribes  thun 
dered  their  own  disgrace  and  condemnation,  yet  Amer 
ica  sat  dazed,  incredulous,  motionless.  Emperor  and 
general,  professor  and  junker,  shouted  at  the  top  of 
their  lungs  the  new  creed,  horrible  as  the  Black  Mass, 
reversing  every  precept  taught  by  Christ. 

Millions  of  Teuton  mouths  cheered  fiercely  for  the 
new  religion — Frightfulness ;  worshipped  with  frantic 
yells  the  new  trinity — Wotan,  Kaiser  and  Brute 
Strength. 

Stunnned,  blinded,  deafened,  the  Western  World,  still 
half-paralysed,  stirred  stiffly  from  its  inertia.  Slowly, 
mechanically,  its  arteries  resumed  their  functions;  the 
reflex,  operating  automatically,  started  trade  again  in 
its  old  channels ;  old  habits  were  timidly  resumed ;  minds 
groped  backward,  searching  for  severed  threads  which 
connected  yesterday  with  to-day — groped,  hunted, 
found  nothing,  and,  perplexed,  turned  slowly  toward 
the  smoke-choked  future  for  some  reason  for  it  all — 
some  outlook. 

There  was  no  explanation,  no  outlook — nothing  save 
dust  and  flame  and  the  din  of  Teutonic  hordes  tram 
pling  to  death  the  Son  of  Man. 

So  America  moved  about  her  worn,  deep-trodden  and 
familiar  ways,  her  mind  slowly  clearing  from  the  cata 
clysmic  concussion,  her  power  of  vision  gradually  re 
turning,  adjusting  itself,  little  by  little,  to  this  new 
heaven  and  new  earth  and  this  hell  entirely  new. 

59 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


The  Lusitania  went  down ;  the  Great  Republic  merely 
quivered.  Other  ships  followed;  only  a  low  murmur 
of  pain  came  from  the  Western  Colossus. 

But  now,  after  the  second  year,  through  the  thicken 
ing  nightmare  the  Great  Republic  groaned  aloud;  and 
a  new  note  of  menace  sounded  in  her  drugged  and 
dreary  voice. 

And  the  thick  ears  of  the  Hun  twitched  and  he 
paused,  squatting  belly-deep  in  blood,  to  listen. 

Barres  walked  homeward.  Somewhere  along  in  the 
40's  he  turned  eastward  into  one  of  those  cross-streets 
originally  built  up  of  brownstone  dwelling  houses,  and 
now  in  process  of  transformation  into  that  architec 
tural  and  commercial  miscellany  which  marks  the  tran 
sition  stage  of  the  metropolis  anywhere  from  West- 
chester  to  the  sea. 

Altered  for  business  purposes,  basements  displayed 
signs  and  merchandise  of  bootmakers,  dealers  in  oriental 
porcelains,  rare  prints,  silverware;  parlour  windows 
modified  into  bay  windows,  sheeted  with  plate-glass,  ex 
posed,  perhaps,  feminine  headgear,  or  an  expensive 
model  gown  or  two,  or  the  sign  of  a  real-estate  man, 
or  of  an  upholsterer. 

Above  the  parlour  floors  lived  people  of  one  sort  or 
another;  furnished  and  unfurnished  rooms  and  suites 
prevailed;  and  the  brownstone  monotony  was  already 
indented  along  the  building  line  by  brand-new  construc 
tions  of  Indiana  limestone,  behind  the  glittering  plate- 
glass  of  which  were  to  be  seen  reticent  displays  of 
artistic  furniture,  modern  and  antique  oil  paintings, 
here  and  there  the  lace-curtained  den  of  some  superior 
ladies'  hair-dresser,  where  beautifying  also  was  accom 
plished  at  a  price,  alas! 

Halfway  between  Sixth  Avenue  and  Fifth,  on  the 

60 


IN  DRAGON  COURT 


north  side  of  the  street,  an  enterprising  architect  had 
purchased  half  a  dozen  squatty,  three-storied  houses, 
set  back  from  the  sidewalk  behind  grass-plots.  These 
had  been  lavishly  stuccoed  and  transformed  into  abodes 
for  those  irregulars  in  the  army  of  life  known  as 
"artists." 

In  the  rear  the  back  fences  had  been  levelled;  six 
corresponding  houses  on  the  next  street  had  been  pur 
chased  ;  a  sort  of  inner  court  established,  with  a  com 
mon  grass-plot  planted  with  trees  and  embellished  by  a 
number  of  concrete  works  of  art,  battered  statues,  sun 
dials,  and  well-curbs. 

Always  the  army  of  civilisation  trudges  along 
screened,  flanked,  and  tagged  after  by  life's  irregulars, 
who  cannot  or  will  not  conform  to  routine.  And  these 
are  always  roaming  around  seeking  their  own  canton 
ments,  where,  for  a  while,  they  seem  content  to  dwell 
at  the  end  of  one  more  aimless  etape  through  the  world 
— not  in  regulation  barracks,  but  in  regions  too  un 
conventional,  too  inconvenient  to  attract  others. 

Of  this  sort  was  the  collection  of  squatty  houses, 
forming  a  "community,"  where,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  other  irregulars,  Garret  Barres  dwelt ;  and  into  the 
lighted  entrance  of  which  he  now  turned,  still  exhil 
arated  by  his  meeting  with  Thessalie  Dunois. 

The  architectural  agglomeration  was  known  as 
Dragon  Court — a  faience  Fu-dog  above  the  electric 
light  over  the  green  entrance  door  furnishing  that  price- 
le&s  idea — a  Fu-dog  now  veiled  by  mesh-wire  to  provide 
against  the  indiscretions  of  sparrows  lured  thither  by 
housekeeping  possibilities  lurking  among  the  dense 
screens  of  Japanese  ivy  covering  the  fa£ade. 

Larry  Soane,  the  irresponsible  superintendent,  al 
ways  turned  gardener  with  April's  advent  in  Dragon 
Court,  contributions  from  its  denizens  enabling  him  to 

61 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


pepper  a  few  flower-beds  with  hyacinths  and  tulips,  and 
later  with  geraniums.  These  former  bulbs  had  now 
gratefully  appeared  in  promising  thickets,  and  Barres 
saw  the  dark  form  of  the  handsome,  reckless-looking 
Irishman  fussing  over  them  in  the  lantern-lit  dusk, 
while  his  little  daughter,  Dulcie,  kneeling  on  the  dim 
grass,  caressed  the  first  blue  hyacinth  blossom  with 
thin,  childish  fingers. 

Barres  glanced  into  his  letter-box  behind  the  desk, 
above  which  a  drop-light  threw  more  shadows  than 
illumination.  Little  Dulcie  Soane  was  supposed  to  sit 
under  it  and  emit  information,  deliver  and  receive  let 
ters,  pay  charges  on  packages,  and  generally  supervise 
things  when  she  was  not  attending  school. 

There  were  no  letters  for  the  young  man.  He  ex 
amined  a  package,  found  it  contained  his  collars  from 
the  laundry,  tucked  them  under  his  left  arm,  and 
walked  to  the  door  looking  out  upon  the  dusky  interior 
court. 

"Soane,"  he  said,  "your  garden  begins  to  look  very 
fine."  He  nodded  pleasantly  to  Dulcie,  and  the  child 
responded  to  his  friendly  greeting  with  the  tired  but 
dauntless  smile  of  the  young  who  are  missing  those 
golden  years  to  which  all  childhood  has  a  claim. 

Dulcie's  three  cats  came  strolling  out  of  the  dusk 
across  the  lamplit  grass — a  coal  black  one  with  sea- 
green  eyes,  known,  as  "The  Prophet,"  and  his  platonic 
mate,  white  as  snow,  and  with  magnificent  azure-blue 
eyes  which,  in  white  cats,  usually  betokens  total  deaf 
ness.  She  was  known  as  "The  Houri"  to  the  irregulars 
of  Dragon  Court.  The  third  cat,  unanimously  but  mis- 
leadingly  christened  "Strindberg"  by  the  dwellers  in 
Dragon  Court,  has  already  crooked  her  tortoise-shell 
tail  and  was  tearing  around  in  eccentric  circles  or  dart 
ing  halfway  up  trees  in  a  manner  characteristic,  and 


IN  DRAGON  COURT 


possibly  accounting1  for  the  name,  if  not  for  the  sex. 

"Thim  cats  of  the  kid's,"  observed  Soane,  "do  be 
scratchin'  up  the  plants  all  night  long — bad  cess  to 
thim!  Barrin'  thim  three  omadhauns  yonder,  I'd  show 
ye  a  purty  bed  o'  poisies,  Misther  Barres.  But  Sthrin'- 
berg,  God  help  her,  is  f'r  diggin'  through  to  China." 

Dulcie  impulsively  caressed  the  Prophet,  who  turned 
his  solemn,  incandescent  eyes  on  Barres.  The  Houri 
also  looked  at  him,  then,  intoxicated  by  the  soft  spring 
evening,  rolled  lithely  upon  the  new  grass  and  lay  there 
twitching  her  snowy  tail  and  challenging  the  stars  out 
of  eyes  that  matched  their  brilliance. 

Dulcie  got  up  and  walked  slowly  across  the  grass  to 
where  Barres  stood: 

"May  I  come  to  see  you  this  evening?"  she  asked, 
diffidently,  and  with  a  swift,  sidelong  glance  toward 
her  father. 

"Ah,  then,  don't  be  worritin'  him !"  grumbled  Soane. 
"Hasn't  Misther  Barres  enough  to  do,  what  with  all 
thim  idees  he  has  slitherin'  in  his  head,  an'  all  the  books 
an'  learnin'  an'  picters  he  has  to  think  of — whithout 
the  likes  of  you  at  his  heels  every  blessed  minute,  day 
an'  night! " 

"But  he  always  lets  me — "  she  remonstrated. 

"G'wan,  now,  and  lave  the  poor  gentleman  be !  Quit 
your  futtherin'  an'  muttherin'.  G'wan  in  the  house,  ye 
little  scut,  an'  see  what  there  is  f'r  ye  to  do ! " 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Soane?"  interrupted 
Barres  good-humouredly.  "Of  course  she  can  come  up 
if  she  wants  to.  Do  you  feel  like  paying  me  a  visit, 
Dulcie,  before  you  go  to  bed?" 

"Yes,"  she  nodded  diffidently. 

"Well,  come  ahead  then,  Sweetness!  And  whenever 
you  want  to  come  you  say  so.  Your  father  knows  well 
enough  I  like  to  have  you." 

63 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


He  smiled  at  Dulcie ;  the  child's  shy  preference  for 
his  society  always  had  amused  him.  Besides,  she  was 
always  docile  and  obedient ;  and  she  was  very  sensitive, 
too,  never  outwearing  her  welcome  in  his  studio,  and 
always  leaving  without  a  murmur  when,  looking  up 
from  book  or  drawing  he  would  exclaim  cheerfully: 
"Now,  Sweetness!  Time's  up!  Bed  for  yours,  little 
lady!" 

It  had  been  a  very  gradual  acquaintance  between 
them — more  than  two  years  in  developing.  From  his 
first  pleasant  nod  to  her  when  he  first  came  to  live  in 
Dragon  Court,  it  had  progressed  for  a  few  months, 
conservatively  on  her  part,  and  on  his  with  a  detached 
but  kindly  interest  born  of  easy  sympathy  for  youtK 
and  loneliness. 

But  he  had  no  idea  of  the  passionate  response  he  was 
stirring  in  the  motherless,  neglected  child — of  what 
hunger  he  was  carelessly  stimulating,  what  latent  quali 
ties  and  dormant  characteristics  he  was  arousing. 

Her  appearance,  one  evening,  in  her  night-dress  at 
his  studio  doorway,  accompanied  by  her  three  cats,  be 
gan  to  enlighten  him  in  regard  to  her  mental  starva 
tion.  Tremulous,  almost  at  the  point  of  tears,  she  had 
asked  for  a  book  and  permission  to  remain  for  a  few 
moments  in  the  studio.  He  had  rung  for  Selinda,  or 
dered  fruit,  cake,  and  a  glass  of  milk,  and  had  installed 
Dulcie  upon  the  sofa  with  a  lapful  of  books.  That 
was  the  beginning. 

But  Barres  still  did  not  entirely  understand  what 
particular  magnet  drew  the  child  to  his  studio.  The 
place  was  full  of  beautiful  things,  books,  rugs,  pictures, 
fine  old  furniture,  cabinets  glimmering  with  porcelains, 
ivories,  jades,  Chinese  crystals.  These  all,  in  minutest 
detail,  seemed  to  fascinate  the  girl.  Yet,  after  giving 
her  permission  to  enter  whenever  she  desired,  often 

64 


DRAGON  COURT 


while  reading  or  absorbed  in  other  affairs,  he  became 
conscious  of  being  watched;  and,  glancing  up,  would 
frequently  surprise  her  sitting  there  very  silently,  with 
an  open  book  on  her  knees,  and  her  strange  grey  eyes 
intently  fixed  on  him. 

Then  he  would  always  smile  and  say  something 
friendly;  and  usually  forget  her  the  next  moment  in 
his  absorption  of  whatever  work  he  had  under  way. 

Only  one  other  man  inhabiting  Dragon  Court  ever 
took  the  trouble  to  notice  or  speak  to  the  child — James 
Westmore,  the  sculptor.  And  he  was  very  friendly  in 
his  vigorous,  jolly,  rather  boisterous  way,  catching  her 
up  and  tossing  her  about  as  gaily  and  irresponsibly  as 
though  she  were  a  rag  doll;  and  always  telling  her  he 
was  her  adopted  godfather  and  would  have  to  chastise 
her  if  she  ever  deserved  it.  Also,  he  was  always  urging 
her  to  hurry  and  grow  up,  because  he  had  a  wedding 
present  for  her.  And  though  Dulcie's  smile  was 
friendly,  and  Westmore's  nonsense  pleased  the  shy 
child,  she  merely  submitted,  never  made  any  advance. 

Barres's  menage  was  accomplished  by  two  speci 
mens  of  mankind,  totally  opposite  in  sex  and  colour; 
Selinda,  a  blonde,  slant-eyed,  and  very  trim  Finn,  do 
ing  duty  as  maid ;  and  Aristocrates  W.  Johnson,  lately 
employed  in  the  capacity  of  waiter  on  a  dining-car  by 
the  New  York  Central  Railroad — tall,  dignified,  grace 
ful,  and  Ethiopian — who  cooked  as  daintily  as  a  debu 
tante  trifling  with  culinary  duty,  and  served  at  table 
with  the  languid  condescension  of  a  dilettante  and 
wealthy  amateur  of  domestic  arts. 


Barres  ascended  the  two  low,  easy  flights  of  stairs 
and  unlocked  his  door.     Aristocrates,  setting  the  table 

65 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


in  the  dining-room,  approached  gracefully  and  relieved 
his  master  of  hat,  coat,  and  stick. 

Half  an  hour  later,  a  bath  and  fresh  linen  keyed 
up  his  already  lively  spirits;  he  whistled  while  he  tied 
his  tie,  took  a  critical  look  at  himself,  and,  dropping 
both  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  dinner  jacket,  walked 
out  into  the  big  studio,  which  also  was  his  living-room. 

There  was  a  piano  there;  he  sat  down  and  rattled 
off  a  rollicking  air  from  the  most  recent  spring  pro 
duction,  beginning  to  realise  that  he  was  keyed  up  for 
something  livelier  than  a  solitary  dinner  at  home. 

His  hands  fell  from  the  keys  and  he  swung  around  on 
the  piano  stool  and  looked  into  the  dining-room  rather 
doubtfully. 

"Aristocrates!"  he  called. 

The  tall  pullman  butler  sauntered  gracefully  in. 

Barres  gave  him  a  telephone  number  to  call.  Aris 
tocrates  returned  presently  with  the  information  that 
the  lady  was  not  at  home.  • 

"All  right.  Try  Amsterdam  6703.  Ask  for  Miss 
Souval." 

But  Miss  Souval,  also,  was  out. 

Barres  possessed  a  red-leather  covered  note-book ;  he 
went  to  his  desk  and  got  it;  and  under  his  direction 
Aristocrates  called  up  several  numbers,  reporting  ad 
versely  in  every  case. 

It  was  a  fine  evening;  ladies  were  abroad  or  pre 
paring  to  fulfil  engagements  wisely  made  on  such  a  day 
as  this  had  been.  And  the  more  numbers  he  called  up 
the  lonelier  the  young  man  began  to  feel. 

Thessalie  had  not  given  him  either  her  address  or 
telephone  number.  It  would  have  been  charming  to 
have  her  dine  with  him.  He  was  now  thoroughly  in 
clined  for  company.  He  glanced  at  the  empty  dining- 
room  with  aversion. 

66 


IN  DRAGON  COURT 


"All  right;  never  mind,"  he  said,  dismissing  Aris- 
tocrates,  who  receded  as  lithely  as  though  leading  a 
cake-walk. 

"The  devil,"  muttered  the  young  feUow.  "I'm  not 
going  to  dine  here  alone.  I've  had  too  happy  a  day 
of  it." 

He  got  up  restlessly  and  began  to  pace  the  studio. 
He  knew  he  could  get  some  man,  but  he  didn't  want 
one.  However,  it  began  to  look  like  that  or  a  solitary 
dinner. 

So  after  a  few  more  moments'  scowling  cogitation 
he  went  out  and  down  the  stairs,  with  the  vague  idea 
of  inviting  some  brother  painter — any  one  of  the  reg 
ular  irregulars  who  inhabited  Dragon  Court. 

Dulcie  sat  behind  the  little  desk  near  the  door,  head 
bowed,  her  thin  hands  clasped  over  the  closed  ledger, 
and  in  her  pallid  face  the  expressionless  dullness  of  a 
child  forgotten. 

"Hello,  Sweetness!"  he  said  cheerfully. 

She  looked  up ;  a  slight  colour  tinted  her  cheeks,  and 
she  smiled. 

"What's  the  matter,  Dulcie?" 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing?  That's  a  very  dreary  malady — noth 
ing.  You  look  lonely.  Are  you?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  don't  know  whether  you  are  lonely  or  not?"  he 
demanded. 

"I  suppose  I  am,"  she  ventured,  with  a  shy  smile. 

"Where  is  your  father?" 

"He  went  out." 

"Any  letters  for  me — or  messages?" 

"A  man — he  had  one  eye — came.  He  asked  who  you 
are." 

"What?" 

67 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"I  think  he  was  German.  He  had  only  one  eye.  He 
asked  your  name." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  told  him.    Then  he  went  away." 

Barres  shrugged: 

"Somebody  who  wants  to  sell  artists*  materials,"  he 
concluded.  Then  he  looked  at  the  girl:  "So  you're 
lonely,  are  you?  Where  are  your  three  cats?  Aren't 
they  company  for  you?" 

"Yes.  ..." 

"Well,  then,"  he  said  gaily,  "why  not  give  a  part} 
for  them?  That  ought  to  amuse  you,  Dulcie." 

The  child  still  smiled;  Barres  walked  on  past  her 
a  pace  or  two,  halted,  turned  irresolutely,  arrived  at 
some  swift  decision,  and  came  back,  suddenly  under 
standing  that  he  need  seek  no  further — that  he  had 
discovered  his  guest  of  the  evening  at  his  very  elbow. 

"Did  you  and  your  father  have  your  supper,  Dul 
cie?" 

"My  father  went  out  to  eat  at  Grogan's." 

"How  about  you?" 

"I  can  find  something." 

"Why  not  dine  with  me?"  he  suggested. 

The  child  stared,  bewildered,  then  went  a  little  pale. 

"Shall  we  have  a  dinner  party  for  two — you  and  I, 
Dulcie?  What  do  you  say?" 

She  said  nothing,  but  her  big  grey  eyes  were  fixed 
on  him  in  a  passion  of  inquiry. 

"A  real  party,"  he  repeated.  "Let  the  people  get 
their  own  mail  and  packages  until  your  father  returns. 
Nobody's  going  to  sneak  in,  anyway.  Or,  if  that  won't 
do,  I'll  call  up  Grogan's  and  tell  your  father  to  come 
back  because  you  are  going  to  dine  in  my  studio  with 
me.  Do  you  know  the  telephone  number?  Very  well; 
get  Grogan's  for  me.  I'll  speak  to  your  father." 

68 


IN  DRAGON  COURT 


Dulcie's  hand  trembled  on  the  receiver  as  she  called 
up  Grogan's;  Barres  bent  over  the  transmitter: 

"Soane,  Dulcie  is  going  to  take  dinner  in  my  studio 
with  me.  You'll  have  to  come  back  on  duty,  when 
you've  eaten."  He  hung  up,  looked  at  Dulcie  and 
laughed. 

"I  wanted  company  as  much  as  you  did,"  he  con 
fessed.  "Now,  go  and  put  on  your  prettiest  frock,  and 
we'll  be  very  grand  and  magnificent.  And  afterward 
we'll  talk  and  look  at  books  and  pretty  things — and 
maybe  we'll  turn  on  the  Victrola  and  I'll  teach  you  to 
dance — "  He  had  already  begun  to  ascend  the  stairs: 

"In  half  an  hour,  Dulcie !"  he  called  back ;  " — and 
you  may  bring  the  Prophet  if  you  like.  .  .  .  Shall  I 
ask  Mr.  Westmore  to  join  us?" 

"I'd  rather  be  all  alone  with  you,"  she  said  shyly. 

He  laughed  and  ran  on  up  the  stairs. 

In  half  an  hour  the  electric  bell  rang  very  timidly. 
Aristocrates,  having  been  instructed  and  rehearsed, 
and,  loftily  condescending  to  his  role  in  a  kindly  comedy 
to  be  played  seriously,  announced:  "Miss  Soane!"  in 
his  most  courtly  manner. 

Barres  threw  aside  the  evening  paper  and  came  for 
ward,  taking  both  hands  of  the  white  and  slightly 
frightened  child. 

"Aristocrates  ought  to  have  announced  the  Prophet, 
too,"  he  said  gaily,  breaking  the  ice  and  swinging  Dul 
cie  around  to  face  the  open  door  again. 

The  Prophet  entered,  perfectly  at  ease,  his  eyes  of 
living  jade  shining,  his  tail  urbanely  hoisted. 

Dulcie  ventured  to  smile;  Barres  laughed  outright; 
Aristocrates  surveyed  the  Prophet  with  toleration  min 
gled  with  a  certain  respect.  For  a  black  cat  is  never 
without  occult  significance  to  a  gentleman  of  colour. 

69 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


With  Dulcie's  hand  still  in  his,  Barres  led  her  into 
the  living-room,  where,  presently,  Aristocrates  brought 
a  silver  tray  upon  which  was  a  glass  of  iced  orange 
juice  for  Dulcie,  and  a  "Bronnix,"  as  Aristocrates 
called  it,  for  the  master. 

"To  your  health  and  good  fortune  in  life,  Dulcie," 
he  said  politely. 

The  child  gazed  mutely  at  him  over  her  glass,  then, 
blushing,  ventured  to  taste  her  orange  juice. 

When  she  finished,  Barres  drew  her  frail  arm  through 
his  and  took  her  out,  seating  her.  Ceremonies  began 
in  silence,  and  the  master  of  the  place  was  not  quite 
sure  whether  the  flush  on  Dulcie's  face  indicated  un 
happy  embarrassment  or  pleasure. 

He  need  not  have  worried:  the  child  adored  it  all. 
The  Prophet  came  in  and  gravely  seated  himself  on  a 
neighbouring  chair,  whence  he  could  survey  the  table 
and  seriously  inspect  each  course. 

"Dulcie,"  he  said,  "how  grown-up  you  look  with  your 
bobbed  hair  put  up,  and  your  fluffy  gown." 

She  lifted  her  enchanted  eyes  to  him : 

"It  is  my  first  communion  dress.  .  .  .  I've  had  to 
make  it  longer  for  a  graduation  dress." 

"Oh,  that's  so;  you're  graduating  this  summer!" 

"Yes." 

"And  what  then?" 

"Nothing."  She  sighed  unconsciously  and  sat  very 
still  with  folded  hands,  while  Aristocrates  refilled  her 
glass  of  water. 

She  no  longer  felt  embarrassed ;  her  gravity  matched 
Aristocrates's ;  she  seriously  accepted  whatever  was  of 
fered  or  set  before  her,  but  Barres  noticed  that  she  ate 
it  all,  merely  leaving  on  her  plate,  with  inculcated  and 
mathematical  precision,  a  small  portion  as  concession 
to  good  manners. 

70 


IN  DRAGON  COURT 


They  had,  toward  the  banquet's  end,  water  ices,  bon 
bons,  French  pastry,  and  ice  cream.  And  presently  a 
slight  and  blissful  sigh  of  repletion  escaped  the  child's 
red  lips.  The  symptoms  were  satisfactory  but  unmis 
takable;  Dulcie  was  perfectly  feminine;  her  capacity 
had  proven  it. 

The  Prophet's  stately  self-control  in  the  fragrant 
vicinity  of  nourishment  was  now  to  be  rewarded :  Barres 
conducted  Dulcie  to  the  studio  and  installed  her  among 
cushions  upon  a  huge  sofa.  Then,  lighting  a  cigarette, 
he  dropped  down  beside  her  and  crossed  one  knee  over 
the  other. 

"Dulcie,"  he  said  in  his  lazy,  humorous  way,  "it's  a 
funny  old  world  any  way  you  view  it." 

"Do  you  think  it  is  always  funny?"  inquired  the 
child,  her  deep,  grey  eyes  on  his  face. 

He  smiled: 

"Yes,  I  do;  but  sometimes  the  joke  in  on  one's  self. 
And  then,  although  it  is  still  a  funny  world,  from  the 
world's  point  of  view,  you,  of  course,  fail  to  see  the 
humour  of  it.  ...  I  don't  suppose  you  understand." 

"I  do,"  nodded  the  child,  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

"Really?  Well,  I  was  afraid  I'd  been  talking  non 
sense,  but  if  you  understand,  it's  all  right." 

They  both  laughed. 

"Do  you  want  to  look  at  some  books?"  he  suggested. 

"I'd  rather  listen  to  you." 

He  smiled: 

"All  right.  I'll  begin  at  this  corner  of  the  room  and 
tell  you  about  the  things  in  it."  And  for  a  while  he 
rambled  lazily  on  about  old  French  chairs  and  Spanish 
chests,  and  the  panels  of  Mille  Fleur  tapestry  which 
hung  behind  them;  the  two  lovely  pre-Raphael  panels 
in  their  exquisite  ancient  frames ;  the  old  Venetian  vel 
vet  covering  triple  choir-stalls  in  the  corner ;  the  ivory- 

71 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


toned  marble  figure  on  its  wood  and  compos  pedestal, 
where  tendrils  and  delicate  foliations  of  water  gilt  had 
become  slightly  irridescent,  harmonising  with  the  patine 
on  the  ancient  Chinese  garniture  flanking  a  mantel  clock 
of  dullest  gold. 

About  these  things,  their  workmanship,  the  histories 
of  their  times,  he  told  her  in  his  easy,  unaccented  voice, 
glancing  sideways  at  her  from  time  to  time  to  note  how- 
she  stood  it. 

But  she  listened,  fascinated,  her  gaze  moving  from 
the  object  discussed  to  the  man  who  discussed  it;  her 
slim  limbs  curled  under  her,  her  hands  clasped  around 
a  silken  cushion  made  from  the  robe  of  some  Chinese 
princess. 

Lounging  there  beside  her,  amused,  humorously  flat 
tered  by  her  attention,  and  perhaps  a  little  touched, 
he  held  forth  a  little  longer. 

"Is  it  a  nice  party,  so  far,  Dulcie?"  he  concluded 
with  a  smile. 

She  flushed,  found  no  words,  nodded,  and  sat  with 
lowered  head  as  though  pondering. 

"What  would  you  rather  do  if  you  could  do  what 
you  want  to  in  the  world,  Dulcie?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Think  a  minute." 

She  thought  for  a  while. 

"Live  with  you,"  she  said  seriously. 

"Oh,  Dulcie!  That  is  no  sort  of  ambition  for  a 
growing  girl !"  he  laughed ;  and  she  laughed,  too,  watch 
ing  his  every  expression  out  of  grey  eyes  that  were  her 
chiefest  beauty. 

"You're  a  little  too  young  to  know  what  you  want 
yet,"  he  concluded,  still  smiling.  "By  the  time  that 
bobbed  mop  of  red  hair  grows  to  a  proper  length,  you'll 
know  more  about  yourself." 

72 


IN  DRAGON  COURT 


"Do  you  like  it  up?"  she  enquired  naively. 

"It  makes  you  look  older." 

"I  want  it  to." 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  nodded,  noticing  the  snowy  neck 
which  the  new  coiffure  revealed.  It  was  becoming  evi 
dent  to  him  that  Dulcie  had  her  own  vanities — little 
pathetic  vanities  which  touched  him  as  he  glanced  at 
the  reconstructed  first  communion  dress  and  the  droop 
ing  hyacinth  pinned  at  the  waist,  and  the  cheap  white 
slippers  on  a  foot  as  slenderly  constructed  as  her  long 
and  narrow  hands. 

"Did  your  mother  die  long  ago,  Dulcie?" 

"Yes." 

"In  America  ?" 

"In  Ireland." 

"You  look  like  her,  I  fancy — "  thinking  of  Soane. 

"I  don^t  know." 

Barres  had  heard  Soane  hold  forth  in  his  cups  on 
one  or  two  occasions — nothing  more  than  the  vague 
garrulousness  of  a  Celt  made  more  loquacious  by  the 
whiskey  of  one  Grogan — something  about  his  having 
been  a  gamekeeper  in  his  youth,  and  that  his  wife — - 
"God  rest  her!" — might  have  held  up  her  head  with 
"anny  wan  o'  thim  in  th*  Big  House." 

Recollecting  this,  he  idly  wondered  what  the  story 
might  have  been — a  young  girl's  perverse  infatuation 
for  her  father's  gamekeeper,  perhaps — a  handsome, 
common,  ignorant  youth,  reckless  and  irresponsible 
enough  to  take  advantage  of  her — probably  some  such 
story — resembling  similar  histories  of  chauffeurs,  rid 
ing-masters,  grooms,  and  coachmen  at  home. 

The  Prophet  came  noiselessly  into  the  studio, 
stopped  at  sight  of  his  little  mistress,  twitched  his  tail 
reflectively,  then  leaped  onto  a  carved  table  and  calmly 
began  his  ablutions. 

73 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Barres  got  up  and  wound  up  the  Victrola.  Then 
he  kicked  aside  a  rug  or  two. 

"This  is  to  be  a  real  party,  you  know,"  he  remarked". 
"You  don't  dance,  do  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  diffidently,  "a  little." 

"Oh !    That's  fine !"  he  exclaimed. 

Dulcie  got  off  the  sofa,  shook  out  her  reconstructed 
gown.  When  he  came  over  to  where  she  stood,  she 
laid  her  hand  in  his  almost  solemnly,  so  overpowering 
had  become  the  heavenly  sequence  of  events.  For  the 
rite  of  his  hospitality  had  indeed  become  a  rite  to  her. 
Never  before  had  she  stood  in  awe,  enthralled  before 
such  an  altar  as  this  man's  hearthstone.  Never  had 
she  dreamed  that  he  who  so  wondrously  served  it  could 
look  at  such  an  offering  as  hers — herself. 

But  the  miracle  had  happened ;  altar  and  priest  were 
accepting  her;  she  laid  her  hand,  which  trembled,  in 
his ;  gave  herself  to  his  guidance  and  to  the  celestial 
music,  scarcely  seeing,  scarcely  hearing  his  voice. 

"You  dance  delightfully,"  he  was  saying;  "you're  a 
born  dancer,  Dulcie.  I  do  it  fairly  well  myself,  and  I 
ought  to  know." 

He  was  really  very  much  surprised.  He  was  en 
joying  it  immensely.  When  the  Victrola  gave  up  the 
ghost  he  wound  it  again  and  came  back  to  resume. 
Under  his  suggestions  and  tutelage,  they  tried  more 
intricate  steps,  devious  and  ambitious,  and  Dulcie,  un- 
terrified  by  terpsichorean  complications,  surmounted 
every  one  with  his  whispered  coaching  and  expert  aid. 

Now  it  came  to  a  point  where  time  was  not  for  him. 
He  was  too  interested,  enjoying  it  too  genuinely. 

Sometimes,  when  they  paused  to  enable  him  to  resur 
rect  the  defunct  music  in  the  Victrola,  they  laughed  at 
the  Prophet,  who  sat  upon  the  ancient  carved  table, 
gravely  surveying  them.  Sometimes  they  rested  be- 

74 


IN  DRAGON  COURT 


cause  he  thought  she  ought  to — himself  a  trifle  pumped 
— only  to  find,  to  his  amazement,  that  he  need  not  be 
solicitous  concerning  her. 

A  tall  and  ancient  clock  ringing  midnight  from  clear, 
uncompromising  bells,  brought  Barres  to  himself. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  exclaimed,  "this  won't  do!  Dear 
child,  I'm  having  a  wonderful  time,  but  I've  got  to  de 
liver  you  to  your  father!" 

He  drew  her  arm  through  his,  laughingly  pretending 
horror  and  haste;  she  fled  lightly  along  beside  him  as 
he  whisked  her  through  the  hall  and  down  the  stairs. 

A  candle  burned  on  the  desk.  Soane  sat  there, 
asleep,  and  odorous  of  alcohol,  his  flushed  face  buried 
in  his  arms. 

But  Soane  was  what  is  known  as  a  "sob-souse"; 
never  ugly  in  his  cups,  merely  inclined  to  weep  over 
the  immemorial  wrongs  of  Ireland. 

He  woke  up  when  Barres  touched  his  shoulder, 
rubbed  his  swollen  eyes  and  black,  curly  head,  gazed 
tragically  at  his  daughter: 

"G'wan  to  bed,  ye  little  scut !"  he  said,  getting  to  his 
feet  with  a  terrific  yawn. 

Barres  took  her  hand: 

"We've  had  a  wonderful  party,  haven't  we,  Sweet 
ness?" 

"Yes,"  whispered  the  child. 

The  next  instant  she  was  gone  like  a  ghost,  through 
the  dusky,  whitewashed  corridor  where  distorted  shad 
ows  trembled  in  the  candlelight. 

"Soane,"  said  Barres,  "this  won't  do,  you  know. 
They'll  sack  you  if  you  keep  on  drinking." 

The  man,  not  yet  forty,  a  battered,  middle-aged  by 
product  of  hale  and  reckless  vigour,  passed  his  hands 

75 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


over  his  temples  with  the  dignity  of  a  Hibernian  Ham 
let: 

"The  harp  that  wanst  through  Tara's  halls — "  he 
began;  but  memory  failed;  and  two  tears — by-prod 
ucts,  also,  of  Grogan's  whiskey — sparkled  in  his  re 
proachful  eyes. 

"I'm  merely  telling  you,"  remarked  Barres.  "We 
all  like  you,  Soane,  but  the  landlord  won't  stand  for  it." 

"May  God  forgive  him,"  muttered  Soane.  "Was 
there  ever  a  landlord  but  he  was  a  tyrant,  too?" 

Barres  blew  out  the  candle;  a  faint  light  above  the 
Fu-dog  outside,  over  the  street  door,  illuminated  the 
stone  hall. 

"You  ought  to  keep  sober  for  your  little  daughter's 
sake,"  insisted  Barres  in  a  low  voice.  "You  love  her, 
don't  you?" 

"I  do  that!"  said  Soane— "God  bless  her  and  her 
poor  mother,  who  could  hould  up  her  pretty  head  with 
anny  wan  till  she  tuk  up  with  th'  like  o'  me!" 

His  brogue  always  increased  in  his  cups;  devotion 
to  Ireland  and  a  lofty  scorn  of  landlords  grew  with 
both. 

"You'd  better  keep  away  from  Grogan's,"  remarked 
Barres. 

"I  had  a  bite  an'  a  sup  at  Grogan's.  Is  there  anny 
harrm  in  that,  sorr?" 

"Cut  out  the  'sup,'  Larry.  Cut  out  that  gang  of 
bums  at  Grogan's,  too.  There  are  too  many  Germans 
hanging  out  around  Grogan's  these  days.  You  Sinn 
Feiners  or  Clan-na-Gael,  or  whatever  you  are,  had  bet 
ter  manage  your  own  affairs,  anyway.  The  old-time 
Feinans  stood  on  their  own  sturdy  legs,  not  on  Ger 
man  beer-skids." 

"Wisha  then,  sorr,  d'ye  mind  th'  ould  song  they  sang 
in  thim  days: 

76 


IN  DEAGON  COURT 


'Then  up  steps  Bony  party 
An*  takes  me  by  the  hand, 
And  how  is  ould  Ireland, 
And  how  does  she  shtand? 
It's  a  poor,  disthressed  country 
As  ever  yet  was  seen, 
And  they're  hangin'  men  and  women 
For  the  wearing  of  the  green! 

Oh,  the  wearing  of  the " 


"That'll  do,"  said  Barres  drily.  "Do  you  want  to 
wake  the  house?  Don't  go  to  Grogan's  and  talk  about 
Ireland  to  any  Germans.  I'll  tell  you  why ;  we'll  prob 
ably  be  at  war  with  Germany  ourselves  within  a  year, 
and  that's  a  pretty  good  reason  for  you  Irish  to  keep 
clear  of  all  Germans.  Go  to  bed!" 


VI 


DULCIE 

ONE  warm  afternoon  late  in  spring,  Dulcie  Soane, 
returning  from  school  to  Dragon  Court,  found 
her  father  behind  the  desk,  as  usual,  awaiting 
his  daughter's  advent,  to  release  him  from  duty. 

A  tall,  bony  man  with  hectic  and  sunken  cheeks  and 
only  a  single  eye  was  standing  by  the  desk,  earnestly 
engaged  in  whispered  conversation  with  her  father. 

He  drew  aside  instantly  as  Dulcie  came  up  and  laid* 
her  school  books  on  the  desk.  Soane,  already  redolent 
of  Grogan's  whiskey,  pushed  back  his  chair  and  got  to 
his  feet. 

"G'wan  in  f'r  a  bite  an'  a  sup,"  he  said  to  his  daugh 
ter,  "while  I  talk  to  the  gintleman." 

So  Dulcie  went  slowly  into  the  superintendent's  dingy 
quarters  for  her  mid-day  meal,  which  was  dinner;  and 
between  her  and  a  sloppy  scrub-woman  who  cooked  for 
them,  she  managed  to  warm  up  and  eat  what  Soane  had 
left  for  her  from  his  own  meal. 

When  she  returned  to  the  desk  in  the  hall,  the  one- 
eyed  man  had  gone.  Soane  sat  on  the  chair  behind 
the  desk,  his  face  over-red  and  shiny,  his  heels  drum 
ming  the  devil's  tattoo  on  the  tessellated  pavement. 

"I'll  be  at  Grogan's,"  he  said,  as  Dulcie  seated  her 
self  in  the  ancient  leather  chair  behind  the  desk  tele 
phone,  and  began  to  sort  the  pile  of  mail  which  the 
postman  evidently  had  just  delivered. 

"Very  -«?ell,"  she  murmured  absently,  turning  around 

78 


DULCIE 


and  beginning  to  distribute  the  letters  and  parcels  in 
the  various  numbered  compartments  behind  her.  Soane 
slid  off  his  chair  to  his  feet  and  straightened  up, 
stretching  and  yawning. 

"Av  anny  wan  tilliphones  to  Misther  Barres,"  he 
said,  "listen  in." 

"What!" 

"Listen  in,  I'm  tellin'  you.  And  if  it's  a  lady,  ask 
her  name  first,  and  then  listen  in.  And  if  she  says  her 
name  is  Queljen  or  Dunois,  mind  what  she  says  to 
Misther  Barres." 

"Why?"  enquired  Dulcie,  astonished. 

"Becuzrmtellin'ye!" 

"I  shall  not  do  that,"  said  the  girl,  flushing  up. 

"Ah,  bother!  Sure,  there's  no  harm  in  it,  Dulcie! 
Would  I  be  askin'  ye  to  do  wrong,  asthore?  Me  who 
is  your  own  blood  and  kin?  Listen  then:  'Tis  a  woman 
what  do  be  botherin'  the  poor  young  gentleman,  an' 
I'll  not  have  him  f'r  to  be  put  upon.  Listen,  m'acushla, 
and  if  airy  a  lady  tilliphones,  or  if  she  comes  futtherin' 
an'  muttherin'  around  here,  call  me  at  Grogan's  and 
I'll  be  soon  dishposen'  av  the  likes  av  her." 

"Has  she  ever  been  here — this  lady?"  asked  the  girl, 
uncertain  and  painfully  perplexed. 

"Sure  has  she!  Manny's  the  time  I've  chased  her 
out,"  replied  Soane  glibly. 

"Oh.     What  does  she  look  like?" 

"God  knows — annything  ye  don't  wish  f'r  to  look 
like  yourself!  Sure,  I  disremember  what  make  of 
woman  she  might  be — her  name's  enough  for  you.  Call 
me  up  if  she  comes  or  rings.  She  may  be  a  dangerous 
woman,  at  that,"  he  added,  "so  speak  fair  to  her  and 
listen  in  to  what  she  says." 

Dulcie  slowly  nodded,  looking  at  him  hard. 

Soane  put  on  his  faded  brown  hat  at  an  angle,  fished 

79 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


a  cigar  with  a  red  and  gold  band  from  his  fancy  but 
soiled  waistcoat,  scratched  a  match  on  the  seat  of  his 
greasy  pants,  and  sauntered  out  through  the  big,  white 
washed  hallway  into  the  street,  with  a  touch  of  the 
swagger  which  always  characterised  him. 

Dulcie,  both  hands  buried  in  her  ruddy  hair  and  both 
thin  elbows  on  the  desk,  sat  poring  over  her  school 
books. 

Graduation  day  was  approaching;  there  was  much 
for  her  to  absorb,  much  to  memorise  before  then. 

As  she  studied  she  hummed  to  herself  the  air  of  the 
quaint  song  which  she  was  to  sing  at  her  graduation 
exercises.  That  did  not  interfere  with  her  concentra 
tion;  but  as  she  finished  one  lesson,  cast  aside  the  book, 
and  opened  another  to  prepare  the  next  lesson,  vaguely 
happy  memories  of  her  evening  party  with  Barres  came 
into  her  mind  to  disturb  her  thoughts,  tempting  her 
to  reverie  and  the  delicious  idleness  she  knew  only  when 
alone  and  absorbed  in  thoughts  of  him. 

But  she  resolutely  put  him  out  of  her  mind  and 
opened  her  book. 

The  hall  clock  ticked  loudly  through  the  silence; 
slanting  sun  rays  fell  through  the  street  grille,  across 
the  tessellated  floor  where  flies  crawled  and  buzzed. 

The  Prophet  sat  full  in  a  bar  of  sunlight  and  gravely 
followed  the  movements  of  the  flies  as  though  special 
ising  on  the  study  of  those  amazing  insects. 

Tenants  of  Dragon  Court  passed  out  or  entered  at 
intervals,  pausing  to  glance  at  their  letter-boxes  or  re 
questing  their  keys. 

Westmore  came  down  the  eastern  staircase,  like  an 
avalanche,  with  a  cheery: 

"Hello,  Dulcie!  Any  letters?  All  right,  old  dear! 
If  you  see  Mr.  Mandel,  tell  him  I'll  be  at  the  club!" 

80 


DULCIE 


Corot  Mandel  came  in  presently,  and  she  gave  him 
Westmore's  message. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  not  even  glancing  at  the  thin 
figure  in  the  shabby  dress  too  small  for  her.  And,  after 
peering  into  his  letter-box,  he  went  away  with  the  in 
dolent  swing  of  a  large  and  powerful  plantigrade,  gaz 
ing  fixedly  ahead  of  him  out  of  heavy,  oriental  eyes, 
and  twisting  up  his  jet  black,  waxed  moustache. 

A  tall,  handsome  girl  called  and  enquired  for  Mr. 
Trenor.  Dulcie  returned  her  amiable  smile,  unhooked 
the  receiver,  and  telephoned  up.  But  nobody  answered 
from  Esme  Trenor's  apartment,  and  the  girl,  whose 
name  was  Damaris  Souval,  and  whose  profession  varied 
between  the  stage  and  desultory  sitting  for  artists, 
smiled  once  more  on  Dulcie  and  sauntered  out  in  her 
very  charming  summer  gown. 

The  shabby  child  looked  after  her  through  the  sunny 
hallway,  the  smile  still  curving  her  lips — a  sensitive, 
winning  smile,  untainted  by  envy.  Then  she  resumed 
her  book,  serenely  clearing  her  youthful  mind  of  vanity 
and  desire  for  earthly  things. 

Half  an  hour  later  Esme  Trenor  sauntered  in.  His 
was  a  sensative  nature  and  fastidious,  too.  Dinginess, 
obscurity — everything  that  was  shabby,  tarnished, 
humble  in  life,  he  consistently  ignored.  He  had  ignored 
Dulcie  Soane  for  three  years :  he  ignored  her  now. 

He  glanced  indifferently  into  his  letter-box  as  he 
passed  the  desk,  Dulcie  said,  with  the  effort  it  always 
required  for  her  to  speak  to  him: 

"Miss  Souval  called,  but  left  no  message." 

Trenor's  supercilious  glance  rested  on  her  for  the 
fraction  of  a  second,  then,  with  a  bored  nod,  he  con 
tinued  on  his  way  and  up  the  stairs.  And  Dulcie  re-*- 
turned  to  her  book. 

The  desk  telephone  rang:  a  Mrs.  Helmund  desired 

81 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


to  speak  to  Mr.  Trenor.  Dulcie  switched  her  on,  rested 
her  chin  on  her  hand,  and  continued  her  reading. 

Some  time  afterward  the  telephone  rang  again. 

"Dragon  Court,"  said  Dulcie,  mechanically. 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  Mr.  Barres,  please." 

"Mr.  Barres  has  not  come  in  from  luncheon." 

"Are  you  sure?"  same  the  pretty,  feminine  voice. 

"Quite  sure,"  replied  Dulcie.     "Wait  a  minute " 

She  called  Barres's  apartment;  Aristocrates  an 
swered  and  confirmed  his  master's  absence  with  courtly 
effusion. 

"No,  he  is  not  in,"  repeated  Dulcie.  "Who  shall  I 
say  called  him?" 

"Say  that  Miss  Dunois  called  him  up.  If  he  comes 
in,  say  that  Miss  Thessalie  Dunois  will  come  at  five  to 
take  tea  with  him.  Thank  you.  Good-bye." 

Startled  to  hear  the  very  name  against  which  her 
father  had  warned  her,  Dulcie  found  it  difficult  to  rec 
oncile  the  sweet  voice  that  came  to  her  over  the  wire 
with  the  voice  of  any  such  person  her  father  had  de 
scribed. 

Still  a  trifle  startled,  she  laid  aside  the  receiver  with 
a  disturbed  glance  toward  the  wrought-iron  door  at  the 
further  end  of  the  hall. 

She  had  no  desire  at  all  to  call  up  her  father  at 
Grogan's  and  inform  him  of  what  had  occurred.  The 
mere  thought  of  surreptitious  listening  in,  of  eaves 
dropping,  of  informing,  reddened  her  face.  Also,  she 
had  long  since  lost  confidence  in  the  somewhat  battered 
but  jaunty  man  who  had  always  neglected  her,  although 
never  otherwise  unkind,  even  when  intoxicated. 

No,  she  would  neither  listen  in  nor  inform  on  any 
body  at  the  behest  of  a  father  for  whom,  alas,  she  had 
no  respect,,  merely  those  shreds  of  conventional  feeling 

82 


DULCIE 

which  might  once  have  been  filial  affection,  but  had 
become  merely  an  habitual  solicitude. 

No,  her  character,  her  nature  refused  such  obedi 
ence.  If  there  was  trouble  between  the  owner  of  the 
unusually  sweet  voice  and  Mr.  Barres,  it  was  their  af 
fair,  not  hers,  not  her  father's. 

This  settled  in  her  mind,  she  opened  another  book 
and  turned  the  pages  slowly  until  she  came  to  the  les 
son  to  be  learned. 

It  was  hard  to  concentrate ;  her  thoughts  were  stray 
ing,  now,  to  Barres. 

And,  as  she  leaned  there,  musing  above  her  dingy 
school  book,  through  the  grilled  door  at  the  further 
end  of  the  hall  stepped  a  young  girl  in  a  light  summer 
gown — a  beautiful  girl,  lithe,  graceful,  exquisitely 
groomed — who  came  swiftly  up  to  the  desk,  a  trifle  pale 
and  breathless: 

"Mr.  Barres?     He  lives  here?" 

"Yes." 

"Please  announce  Miss  Dunois." 

Dulcie  flushed  deeply  under  the  shock: 

"Mr. — Mr.  Barres  is  still  out " 

"Oh.  Was  it  you  I  talked  to  over  the  telephone?" 
asked  Thessalie  Dunois. 

"Yes." 

"Mr.  Barres  has  not  reutrned?" 

"No." 

Thessalie  bit  her  lip,  hesitated,  turned  to  go.  And 
at  the  same  instant  Dulcie  saw  the  one-eyed  man  at  the 
street  door,  peering  through  the  iron  grille. 

Thessalie  saw  him,  too,  stiffened  to  marble,  stood 
staring  straight  at  him. 

He  turned  and  went  away  up  the  street.  But  Dulcie, 
to  whom  the  incident  signified  nothing  in  particular  ex 
cept  the  impudence  of  a  one-eyed  man,  was  not  prepared 


THE  MOONLIT  WAI 


for  the  face  which  Thessalie  Dunois  turned  toward  her. 
Not  a  vestige  of  colour  remained  in  it,  and  her  dark 
eyes  seemed  feverish  and  too  large. 

"You  need  not  give  Mr.  Barres  any  message  from 
me,"  she  said  in  an  altered  voice,  which  sounded  strained 
and  unsteady.  "Please  do  not  even  say  that  I  came 
or  mention  my  name.  .  .  .  May  I  ask  it  of  you?" 

Dulcie,  very  silent  in  her  surprise,  made  no  reply. 

"Please  may  I  ask  it  of  you?"  whispered  Thessalie. 
"Do  you  mind  not  telling  anybody  that  I  was  here?" 

"If— you  wish  it." 

"I  do.     May  I  trust  you?" 

"Y-yes." 

"Thank  you — "  A  bank  bill  was  in  her  gloved  fin 
gers  ;  intuition  warned  her ;  she  took  another  swift  look 
at  Dulcie.  The  child's  face  was  flaming  scarlet. 

"Forgive  me,"  whispered  Thessalie.  .  .  .  "And 
thank  you,  dear — "  She  bent  over  quickly,  took  Dul- 
cie's  hand,  pressed  it,  looking  her  in  the  eyes. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  whispered.  "I  am  not  asking 
you  to  do  anything  you  shouldn't.  Mr.  Barres  will 
understand  it  all  when  I  write  to  him.  .  .  .  Did  you 
see  that  man  at  the  street  door,  looking  through  the 
grating?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  who  he  is?"  whispered  Thessalie. 

"No." 

"Have  you  never  before  seen  him?" 

"Yes.  He  was  here  at  two  o'clock  talking  to  my 
father." 

"Your  father?" 

"My  father's  name  is  Lawrence  Soane.  He  is  su 
perintendent  of  Dragon  Court." 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Dulcie  Soane." 

84. 


DULCIE 

Thessalie  still  held  her  hand  tightly.  Then  with  a 
quick  but  forced  smile,  she  pressed  it,  thanking  the  girl 
for  her  consideration,  turned  and  walked  swiftly 
through  the  hall  out  into  the  street. 

Dulcie,  dreaming  over  her  closed  books  in  the  fad 
ing  light,  vaguely  uneasy  lest  her  silence  might  em 
brace  the  faintest  shadow  of  disloyalty  to  Barres, 
looked  up  quickly  at  the  sound  of  his  familiar  footsteps 
on  the  pavement. 

"Hello,  little  comrade,"  he  called  to  her  on  his  way 
to  the  stairs.  "Didn't  we  have  a  jolly  party  the  other 
evening?  I'm  going  out  to  another  party  this  eve 
ning,  but  I  bet  it  won't  be  as  j  oily  as  ours !" 

The  girl  smiled  happily. 

"Any  letters,   Sweetness?" 

"None,  Mr.  Barres." 

"All  the  better.  I  have  too  many  letters,  too  many 
visitors.  It  leaves  me  no  time  to  have  another  party 
with  you.  But  we  shall  have  another,  Dulcie — never 
fear.  That  is,"  he  added,  pretending  to  doubt  her 
receptiveness  of  his  invitation,  "if  you  would  care  to 
have  another  with  me." 

She  merely  looked  at  him,  smiling  deliciously. 

"Be  a  good  child  and  we'll  have  another!"  he  called 
back  to  her,  running  on  up  the  western  staircase. 

Around  seven  o'clock  her  father  came  in,  steady 
enough  of  foot  but  shiny-red  in  the  face  and  maudlin 
drunk. 

"That  woman  was  here,"  he  whined,  "an'  ye  never 
called  me  up !  I  am  b-bethrayed  be  me  childer — wurra 
the  day " 

"Please,  father!     If  any  one  sees  you " 

"An'  phwy  not!  Am  I  ashamed  o'  the  tears  I  shed? 

85 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


No,  I  am  not.  No  Irishman  need  take  shame  along  av 
the  tears  he  sheds  for  Ireland — God  bless  her  where 
she  shtands! — wid  the  hob-nails  av  the  crool  tyrant 
foreninst  her  bleeding  neck  an' " 

"Father,  please " 

"That  woman  I  warned  ye  of !  She  was  here !  'Twas 
the  wan-eyed  lad  who  seen  her " 

Dulcie  rose  and  took  him  by  his  arm.  He  made  no 
resistance;  but  he  wept  while  she  conducted  him  bed- 
ward,  as  the  immemorial  wrongs  of  Ireland  tore  his 
soul. 


VII 


OPPORTUNITY    KNOCKS 

THE  tremendous  tragedy  in  Europe,  now  nearing 
the  end  of  the  second  act,  had  been  slowly  shak 
ing  the  drowsy  Western  World  out  of  its  snug 
slumber  of  complacency.  Young  America  was  already 
sitting  up  in  bed,  awake,  alert,  listening.  Older  Amer 
ica,  more  difficult  to  convince,  rolled  solemn  and  inter 
rogative  eyes  toward  Washington,  where  the  wooden 
gods  still  sat  nodding  in  a  row,  smiling  vacuously  at 
destiny  out  of  carved  and  painted  features.  Eyes  had 
they  but  they  saw  not,  ears  but  they  heard  not ;  neither 
spake  they  through  their  mouths. 

Yet,  they  that  made  them  were  no  longer  like  unto 
them,  for  many  an  anxious  idolater  no  longer  trusted 
in  them.  For  their  old  God's  voice  was  sounding  in 
their  ears. 

The  voice  of  a  great  ex-president,  too,  had  been 
thundering  from  the  wilderness ;  lesser  prophets,  en 
dowed,  however,  with  intellect  and  vision,  had  been 
warning  the  young  West  that  the  second  advent  of 
Attila  was  at  hand;  an  officer  of  the  army,  inspired 
of  God,  had  preached  preparedness  from  the  market 
places  and  had  established  for  its  few  disciples  an  hab 
itation;  and  a  great  Admiral  had  died  of  a  broken 
heart  because  his  lips  had  been  officially  sealed — the 
wisest  lips  that  ever  told  of  those  who  go  down  to  the 
sea  in  ships. 

Plainer  and  plainer  in  American  ears  sounded  the 

87 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


mounting  surf  of  that  blood-red  sea  thundering  against 
the  frontiers  of  Democracy;  clearer  and  clearer  came 
the  discordant  clamour  of  the  barbaric  hordes ;  louder 
and  more  menacing  the  half-crazed  blaspjhemies  of 
their  chief,  who  had  given  the  very  name  of  the  Scourge 
of  God  to  one  among  the  degenerate  litter  he  had  sired. 

Garret  Barres  had  been  educated  like  any  American 
of  modern  New  York  type.  Harvard,  then  five  years 
abroad,  and  a  return  to  his  native  city  revealed  him 
as  an  ambitious,  receptive,  intelligent  young  man, 
deeply  interested  in  himself  and  his  own  affairs,  theo 
retically  patriotic,  a  good  citizen  by  intention,  an  af 
fectionate  son  and  brother,  and  already  a  pretty  good 
painter  of  the  saner  species. 

A  modest  income  of  his  own  enabled  him  to  bide  his 
time  and  decline  pot-boilers.  A  comparatively  young 
father  and  an  even  more  youthful  mother,  both  of 
sporting  proclivities,  together  with  a  sister  of  the  same 
tastes,  were  his  preferred  companions  when  he  had 
time  to  go  home  to  the  family  rooftree  in  northern 
New  York.  His  lines,  indeed,  were  cast  in  pleasant 
places.  Beside  still  waters  in  green  pastures,  he  could 
always  restore  his  city-tarnished  soul  when  he  desired 
to  retire  for  a  while  from  the  battleground  of  en 
deavour. 

The  city,  after  all,  offered  him  a  world-wide  battle 
field;  for  Garret  Barres  was  by  choice  a  painter  of 
thoroughbred  women,  of  cosmopolitan  men — a  younger 
warrior  of  the  brush  imbued  with  the  old  traditions 
of  those  great  English  captains  of  portraiture,  who 
recorded  for  us  the  more  brilliant  human  truths  of  the 
seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries. 

From  their  stately  canvases  aglow,  the  eyes  of  the 
lovely  dead  look  out  at  us;  the  eyes  of  ambition,  of 

88 


OPPORTUNITY  KNOCKS 

pride,  of  fatuous  complacency;  the  haunted  eyes  of 
sorrow;  the  clear  eyes  of  faith.  Out  of  the  past  they 
gaze — those  who  once  lived — deathlessly  recorded  by 
Van  Dyck,  Lely,  Kneller;  by  Gainsborough,  Reynolds, 
Hoppner,  Lawrence,  Raeburn;  or  consigned  to  a  dig 
nified  destiny  by  Stuart,  Sully,  Inman,  and  Vanderlyn. 

When  Barres  returned  to  New  York  after  many 
years,  he  found  that  the  aspect  of  the  city  had  not 
altered  very  greatly.  The  usual  dirt,  disorder,  and 
municipal  confusion  still  reigned;  subways  were  being 
dug,  but  since  the  memory  of  man  runneth,  the  streets 
of  the  metropolis  have  been  dug  up,  and  its  market 
places  and  byways  have  been  an  abomination. 

The  only  visible  excitement,  however,  was  in  the  war 
columns  of  the  newspapers,  and,  sometimes,  around 
bulletin  boards  where  wrangling  groups  were  no  uncom 
mon  sight,  citizens  and  aliens  often  coming  into  ver 
bal  collision — sometimes  physical — promptly  sup 
pressed  by  bored  policemen. 

There  was  a  "preparedness"  parade;  thousands  of 
worthy  citizens  marched  in  it,  nervously  aware,  now, 
that  the  Great  Republic's  only  mobile  military  division 
was  on  the  Mexican  border,  where  also  certain  Guard 
regiments  were  likely  to  be  directed  to  reinforce  the 
regulars — pet  regiments  from  the  city,  among  whose 
corps  of  officers  and  enlisted  men  everybody  had  some 
friend  or  relative. 

But  these  regiments  had  not  yet  entrained.  There 
were  few  soldiers  to  be  seen  on  the  streets.  Khaki 
began  to  be  noticeable  in  New  York  only  when  the 
Plattsburg  camps  opened.  After  that  there  was  an  in 
terim  of  the  usual  dull,  unaccented  civilian  monotony, 
mitigated  at  rare  intervals  by  this  dun-coloured  ebb 
and  flow  from  Plattsburg. 

89 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Like  the  first  vague  premonitions  of  a  nightmare  the 
first  ominous  symptoms  of  depression  were  slowly  pos 
sessing  hearts  already  uneasy  under  two  years'  bur 
den  of  rumours  unprintable,  horrors  incredible  to  those 
aloof  and  pursuing  the  peaceful  tenor  of  their  ways. 

A  growing  restlessness,  unbelief,  the  incapacity  to 
understand — selfishness,  rapacity,  self-righteousness, 
complacency,  cowardice,  even  stupidity  itself  were 
being  jolted  and  shocked  into  something  resembling  a 
glimmer  of  comprehension  as  the  hunnish  U-boats,  made 
ravenous  by  the  taste  of  blood,  steered  into  western 
shipping  lanes  like  a  vast  shoal  of  sharks 

And  always  thicker  and  thicker  came  the  damning 
tales  of  rape  and  murder,  of  cowardly  savagery,  bru 
tal  vileness,  degenerate  bestiality — clearer,  nearer,  dis 
tinctly  audible,  the  sigh  of  a  ravaged  and  expiring 
civilisation  trampled  to  obliteration  by  the  slavering, 
ferocious  swine  of  the  north. 

Fires  among  shipping,  fires  amid  great  stores  of 
cotton  and  grain  destined  for  France  or  England,  ex 
plosions  of  munitions  of  war  ordered  by  nations  of  the 
Entente,  the  clumsy  propaganda  or  impudent  sneers 
of  German  and  pro-German  newspapers;  reports  of 
German  meddling  in  Mexico,  in  South  America,  in 
Japan ;  more  sinister  news  concerning  the  insolent  ac 
tivities  of  certain  embassies — all  these  were  beginning 
to  have  their  logical  effect  among  a  fat  and  prosper 
ous  people  which  simply  could  not  bear  to  be  aroused 
from  pleasant  dreams  of  brotherhood  to  face  the  raw 
and  hellish  truth. 

"For  fifty  years,"  remarked  Barres  to  his  neigh 
bour,  Esme  Trenor,  also  a  painter  of  somewhat  ec 
centric  portraits,  "our  national  characteristic  has  been 

90 


OPPORTUNITY  KNOCKS 

i_ . 

a  capacity  for  absorbing  bunk  and  a  fixed  determina 
tion  to  kid  ourselves.  There  really  is  a  war,  Trenor,  old 
top,  and  we're  going  to  get  into  it  before  very  long." 

Trenor,  a  tall,  tired,  exquisitely  groomed  young  man, 
who  once  had  painted  a  superficially  attractive  por 
trait  of  a  popular  debutante,  and  had  been  overwhelmed 
with  fashionable  orders  ever  since,  was  the  adored  of 
women.  He  dropped  one  attenuated  knee  over  the 
other  and  lighted  an  attenuated  cigarette. 

"Fancy  anybody  bothering  enough  about  anything 
to  fight  over  it !"  he  said  languidly. 

"We're  going  to  war,  Trenor,"  repeated  Barres, 
jamming  his  brushes  into  a  bowl  of  black  soap.  "That's 
my  positive  conviction." 

"Yours  is  so  disturbingly  positive  a  nature,"  re 
monstrated  the  other.  "Why  ever  raise  a  row?  Noth 
ing  positive  is  of  any  real  importance — not  even  opin 
ions." 

Barres,  vigorously  cleaning  his  brushes  in  turpen 
tine  and  black  soap,  glanced  around  at  Trenor,  and  in 
his  quick  smile  there  glimmered  a  hint  of  good-natured 
malice.  For  Esme  Trenor  was  notoriously  anything 
except  positive  in  his  painting,  always  enveloping  a 
lack  of  technical  knowledge  with  a  veil  of  camouflage. 
Behind  this  pretty  veil  hid  many  defects,  perhaps  even 
deformities — protected  by  vague,  indefinite  shadows 
and  the  effrontery  of  an  adroit  exploiter  of  the  rest 
less  sex. 

But  Esme  Trenor  was  both  clever  and  alert.  He 
had  not  even  missed  that  slight  and  momentary  glim 
mer  of  good-humoured  malice  in  the  pleasant  glance  of 
Barres.  But,  like  his  more  intelligent  prototype, 
Whistler,  it  was  impossible  to  know  whether  or  not 
discovery  ever  made  any  particular  difference  to  him. 
He  tucked  a  lilac-bordered  handkerchief  a  little  deeper 

91 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


into  his  cuff,  glanced  at  his  jewelled  wrist-watch,  shook 
the  long  ash  from  his  cigarette. 

"To  be  positive  in  anything,"  he  drawled,  "is  an 
effort;  effort  entails  exertion;  exertion  is  merely  a  de 
gree  of  violence ;  violence  engenders  toxins ;  toxins  dull 
the  intellect.  Quod  erat,  dear  friend.  You  see?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see,"  nodded  Barres,  always  frankly 
amused  at  Trenor  and  his  ways. 

"Well,  then,  if  you  see "  Trenor  waved  a  long, 

bony,  over-manicured  hand,  expelled  a  ring  or  two  of 
smoke,  meditatively ;  then,  in  his  characteristically  lan 
guid  voice:  "To  be  positive  closes  the  door  to  fur 
ther  observation  and  pulls  down  the  window  shades. 
Nothing  remains  except  to  go  to  bed.  Is  there  any 
thing  more  uninteresting  than  to  go  to  bed?  Is  there 
anything  more  depressing  than  to  know  all  about  some 
thing?" 

"You  do  converse  like  an  ass  sometimes,"  remarked 
Barres. 

"Yes — sometimes.  Not  now,  Barres.  I  don't  desire 
to  know  all  about  anybody  or  anything.  Fancy  my 
knowing  all  about  art,  for  example !" 

"Yes,  fancy!"  repeated  Barres,  laughing. 

"Or  about  anything  specific — a  woman,  for  exam 
ple!"  He  shrugged  wearily. 

"If  you  meet  a  woman  and  like  her,  don't  you  want 
to  know  all  there  is  to  know  about  her?"  inquired 
Barres. 

"I  should  say  not !"  returned  the  other  with  languid 
contempt.  "I  don't  wish  to  know  anything  at  all  about 
her." 

"Well,  we  differ  about  that,  old  top." 

"Religiously.  A  woman  can  be  only  an  incidental 
amusement  in  one's  career.  You  don't  go  to  a  musical 

92 


OPPORTUNITY  KNOCKS 

comedy  twice,  do  you?  And  any  woman  will  reveal 
herself  sufficiently  in  one  evening." 

"Nice,  kindly  domestic  instincts  you  have,  Trenor." 

"I'm  merely  fastidious,"  returned  the  other,  drop 
ping  his  cigarette  out  of  the  open  window.  He  rose, 
yawned,  took  his  hat,  stick  and  gloves. 

"Bye,"  he  said  languidly.  "I'm  painting  Elsena 
Helmund  this  morning." 

Barres  said,  with  good-humoured  envy: 

"I've  neither  commission  nor  sitter.  If  I  had,  you 
bet  I'd  not  stand  there  yawning  at  my  luck." 

"It  is  you  who  have  the  luck,  not  I,"  drawled  Trenor. 
"I  give  a  portion  of  my  spiritual  and  material  self 
with  every  brush  stroke,  while  you  remain  at  liberty  to 
flourish  and  grow  fat  in  idleness.  I  perish  as  I  cre 
ate  ;  my  life  exhausts  itself  to  feed  my  art.  What  you 
call  my  good  luck  is  my  martyrdom.  You  see,  dear 
friend,  how  fortunate  you  are?" 

"I  see,"  grinned  Barres.  "But  will  your  spiritual 
nature  stand  such  a  cruel  drain?  Aren't  you  afraid 
your  morality  may  totter?" 

"Morality,"  mused  Esme,  going;  "that  is  one  of 
those  early  Gothic  terms  now  obsolete,  I  believe " 

He  sauntered  out  with  his  hat  and  gloves  and  stick, 
still  murmuring: 

"Morality?     Gothic— very  Gothic—" 

Barres,  still  amused,  sorted  his  wet  brushes,  dried 
them  carefully  one  by  one  on  a  handful  of  cotton  waste, 
and  laid  them  in  a  neat  row  across  the  soapstone  top 
of  his  palette-table. 

"Hang  it!"  he  muttered  cheerfully.  "I  could  paint 
like  a  streak  this  morning  if  I  had  the  chance — " 

He  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  sat  there 
smoking  for  a  while,  his  narrowing  eyes  fixed  on  a  great 
window  which  opened  above  the  court.  Soft  spring 

93 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


breezes  stirred  the  curtains;  sparrows  were  noisy  out 
there;  a  strip  of  cobalt  sky  smiled  at  him  over  the  op 
posite  chimneys;  an  April  cloud  floated  across  it. 

He  rose,  walked  over  to  the  window  and  glanced 
down  into  the  court.  Several  more  hyacinths  were  now 
in  blossom.  The  Prophet  dozed  majestically,  curled 
up  on  an  Italian  garden  seat.  Beside  him  sprawled 
the  snow  white  Houri,  stretched  out  full  length  in  the 
sun,  her  wonderful  blue  eyes  following  the  irrational 
gambols  of  the  tortoise-shell  cat,  Strindberg,  who  had 
gone  loco,  as  usual,  and  was  tearing  up  and  down  trees, 
prancing  sideways  with  flattened  ears  and  crooked  tail, 
in  terror  at  things  invisible,  or  digging  furiously  to 
ward  China  amid  the  hyacinths. 

Dulcie  Soane  came  out  into  the  court  presently 
and  expostulated  with  Strindberg,  who  suffered  her 
self  to  be  removed  from  the  hyacinth  bed,  only  to  make 
a  hysterical  charge  on  her  mistress's  ankles. 

"Stop  it,  you  crazy  thing!"  insisted  Dulcie,  admin 
istering  a  gentle  slap  which  sent  the  cat  bucketing  and 
corvetting  across  the  lawn,  where  the  eccentric  course 
of  a  dead  leaf,  blown  by  the  April  wind,  instantly  oc 
cupied  its  entire  intellectual  vacuum. 

Barres,  leaning  on  the  window-sill,  said,  without  rais 
ing  his  voice: 

"Hello,  Dulcie!     How  are  you,  after  our  party?" 

The  child  looked  up,  smiled  shyly  her  response 
through  the  pale  glory  of  the  April  sunshine. 

"What  are  you  doing  to-day?"  he  inquired,  with 
casual  but  friendly  interest. 

"Nothing." 

"Isn't  there  any  school?" 

"It's   Saturday." 

"That's  so.  Well,  if  you're  doing  nothing  you're 

94 


OPPORTUNITY  KNOCKS 

just  as  busy  as  I  am,"  he  remarked,  smiling  down  at 
her  where  she  stood  below  his  window. 

"Why  don't  you  paint  pictures?"  ventured  the  girl 
diffidently. 

"Because  I  haven't  any  orders.     Isn't  that  sad?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  But  you  could  paint  a  picture  just  to 
please  yourself,  couldn't  you?" 

"I  haven't  anybody  to  paint  from,"  he  explained  with 
amiable  indifference,  lazily  watching  the  effect  of  al 
ternate  shadow  and  sunlight  on  her  upturned  face. 

"Couldn't  you  find — somebody?"  Her  heart  had 
suddenly  begun  to  beat  very  fast. 

Barres  laughed: 

"Would  you  like  to  have  your  portrait  painted?" 

She  could  scarcely  find  voice  to  reply: 

"Will  you— let  me?" 

The  slim  young  figure  down  there  in  the  April  sun 
shine  had  now  arrested  his  professional  attention.  With 
detached  interest  he  inspected  her  for  a  few  moments ; 
then: 

"You'd  make  an  interesting  study,  Dulcie.  What  do 
you  say?" 

"Do — do  you  mean  that  you  want  me?" 

"Why — yes  !  Would  you  like  to  pose  for  me  ?  It's 
pin-money,  anyway.  Would  you  like  to  try  it?" 

"Y-yes." 

"Are  you  quite  sure?     It's  hard  work." 

"Quite — sure "  she  stammered.    The  little  flushed 

face  was  lifted  very  earnestly  to  his  now,  almost  be 
seechingly.  "I  am  quite  sure,"  she  repeated  breath 
lessly. 

"So  you'd  really  like  to  pose  for  me?"  he  insisted  in 
smiling  surprise  at  the  girl's  visible  excitement.  Then 
he  added  abruptly:  "I've  half  a  mind  to  give  you  a 
job  as  my  private  model!" 

95 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Through  the  rosy  confusion  of  her  face  her  grey 
eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with  a  wistful  intensity,  almost 
painful.  For  into  her  empty  heart  and  starved  mind 
had  suddenly  flashed  a  dazzling  revelation.  Oppor 
tunity  was  knocking  at  her  door.  Her  chance  had 
come !  Perhaps  it  had  been  inherited  from  her  mother 
— God  knows  ! — this  deep,  deep  hunger  for  things  beau 
tiful — this  passionate  longing  for  light  and  knowledge. 

Mere  contact  with  such  a  man  as  Barres  had  al 
ready  made  endurable  a  solitary  servitude  which  had 
been  subtly  destroying  her  child's  spirit,  and  slowly 
dulling  the  hunger  in  her  famished  mind.  And  now 
to  aid  him — to  feel  that  he  was  using  her — was  to  arise 
from  her  rags  of  ignorance  and  emerge  upright  into 
the  light  which  filled  that  wonder-house  wherein  he 
dwelt,  and  on  the  dark  threshold  of  which  her  lonely 
little  soul  had  crouched  so  long  in  silence. 

She  looked  up  almost  blindly  at  the  man  who,  in 
careless  friendliness,  had  already  opened  his  door  to 
her,  had  permitted  her  to  read  his  wonder-books,  had 
allowed  her  to  sit  unreproved  and  silent  from  sheer 
happiness,  and  gaze  unsatiated  upon  the  wondrous 
things  within  the  magic  mansion  where  he  dwelt. 

And  now  to  serve  this  man;  to  aid  him,  to  creep 
into  the  light  in  which  he  stood  and  strive  to  learn 
and  see! — the  thought  already  had  produced  a  deli 
cate  intoxication  in  the  child,  and  she  gazed  up  at 
Barres  from  the  sunny  garden  with  her  naked  soul  in 
her  eyes.  Which  confused,  perplexed,  and  embarrassed 
him. 

"Come  on  up,"  he  said  briefly.  "I'll  tell  your  father 
over  the  'phone." 

She  entered  without  a  sound,  closed  the  door  which 

96 


OPPORTUNITY  KNOCKS 

he  had  left  open  for  her,  advanced  across  the  thick- 
meshed  rug.  She  still  wore  her  blue  gingham  apron; 
her  bobbed  hair,  full  of  ruddy  lights,  intensified  the 
whiteness  of  her  throat.  In  her  arms  she  cradled  the 
Prophet,  who  stared  solemnly  at  Barres  out  of  depth- 
less  green  eyes. 

"Upon  my  word,"  thought  Barres  to  himself,  "I  be 
lieve  I  have  found  a  model  and  an  uncommon  one !" 

Dulcie,  watching  his  expression,  smiled  slightly  and 
stroked  the  Prophet. 

"I'll  paint  you  that  way !  Don't  stir,"  said  the 
young  fellow  pleasantly.  "Just  stand  where  you  are, 

Dulcie.  You're  quite  all  right  as  you  are "  He 

lifted  a  half-length  canvas,  placed  it  on  his  heavy  easel 
and  clamped  it. 

"I  feel  exactly  like  painting,"  he  continued,  busy 
with  his  brushes  and  colours.  "I'm  full  of  it  to-day. 
It's  in  me.  It's  got  to  come  out.  .  .  .  And  you  cer 
tainly  are  an  interesting  subject — with  your  big  grey 
eyes  and  bobbed  red  hair — oh,  quite  interesting  con 
structively,  too — as  well  as  from  the  colour  point." 

He  finished  setting  his  palette,  gathered  up  a  hand 
ful  of  brushes : 

"I  won't  bother  to  draw  you  except  with  a 
brush " 

He  looked  across  at  her,  remained  looking,  the  pleas 
antly  detached  expression  of  his  features  gradually 
changing  to  curiosity,  to  the  severity  of  increasing  in 
terest,  to  concentrated  and  silent  absorption. 

"Dulcie,"  he  presently  concluded,  "you  are  so  un 
usually  interesting  and  paintable  that  you  make  me 
think  very  seriously.  .  .  .  And  I'm  hanged  if  I'm  go 
ing  to  waste  you  by  slapping  a  technically  adequate 
sketch  of  you  onto  this  nice  new  canvas  .  .  .  which 
might  give  me  pleasure  while  I'm  doing  it  ...  and 

97 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


might  even  tickle  my  vanity  for  a  week  .  .  .  and  then 
be  laid  away  to  gather  dust  .  .  .  and  be  covered  over 
next  year  and  used  for  another  sketch.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  . 
No!  .  .  .  You're  worth  more  than  that!" 

He  began  to  pace  the  place  to  and  fro,  thinking  very 
hard,  glancing  around  at  her  from  moment  to  mo 
ment,  where  she  stood,  obediently  immovable  on  the 
blue  meshed  rug,  clasping  the  prophet  to  her  breast. 

"Do  you  want  to  become  my  private  model?"  he  de 
manded  abruptly.  "I  mean  seriously.  Do  you?" 

"Yes." 

"I  mean  a  real  model,  from  whom  I  can  ask  any 
thing  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  please,"  pleaded  the  girl,  trembling  a  lit 
tle. 

"Do  you  understand  what  it  means?" 

"Yes." 

"Sometimes  you'll  be  required  to  wear  few  clothes. 
Sometimes  none.  Did  you  know  that?" 

"Yes.     Mr.  Westmore  asked  me  once." 

"You  didn't  care  to?" 

"Not  for  him." 

"You  don't  mind  doing  it  for  me?" 

"I'll  do  anything  you  ask  me,"  she  said,  trying  to 
smile  and  shivering  with  excitement. 

"All  right.  It's  a  bargain.  You're  my  model,  Dul- 
cie.  When  do  you  graduate  from  school?" 

"In  June." 

"Two  months !  Well— all  right.  Until  then  it  will 
be  a  half  day  through  the  week,  and  all  day  Saturdays 
and  Sundays,  if  I  require  you.  You'll  have  a  weekly 

salary "    He  smiled  and  mentioned  the  figure,  and 

the  girl  blushed  vividly.     She  had,  it  appeared,  ex 
pected  nothing. 

"Why,   Dulcie!"   he   exclaimed,   immensely   amused. 

98 


OPPORTUNITY  KNOCKS 

"You  didn't  intend  to  come  here  and  give  me  all  your 
time  for  nothing,  did  you?" 

"Yes." 

"But  why  on  earth  should  you  do  such  a  thing  for 
me?" 

She  found  no  words  to  explain  why. 

"Nonsense,"  he  continued ;  "you're  a  business  woman 
now.  Your  father  will  have  to  find  somebody  to  cook 
for  him  and  take  the  desk  when  he's  out  at  Grogan's. 
Don't  worry;  I'll  fix  it  with  him.  .  .  .  By  the  way, 
Dulcie,  supposing  you  sit  down." 

She  found  a  chair  and  took  the  Prophet  onto  her 
lap. 

"Now,  this  will  be  very  convenient  for  me,"  he  went 
on,  inspecting  her  with  increasing  satisfaction.  "If 
I  ever  have  any  orders — any  sitters — you  can  have  a 
vacation,  of  course.  Otherwise,  I'll  always  have  an 
interesting  model  at  hand — I've  got  chests  full  of  won 
derful  costumes — genuine  ones "  He  fell  silent, 

his  eyes  studying  her.  Already  he  was  planning  half 
a  dozen  pictures,  for  he  was  just  beginning  to  perceive 
how  adaptable  the  girl  might  be.  And  there  was  about 
her  that  indefinable  something  which,  when  a  painter 
discovers  it,  interests  him  and  arouses  his  intense  ar 
tistic  curiosity. 

"You  know,"  he  said  musingly,  "you  are  something 
more  than  pretty,  Dulcie.  ...  I  could  put  you  in 
eighteenth  century  clothes  and  you'd  look  logical. 
Yes,  and  in  seventeenth  century  clothes,  too.  ...  I 
could  do  some  amusing  things  with  you  in  oriental  gar 
ments.  ...  A  young  Herodiade.  .  .  .  Calypso.  .  .  . 
Theodora.  .  .  .  She  was  a  child,  too,  you  know. 
There's  a  portrait  with  bobbed  hair — a  young  girl  by 
Van  Dyck.  .  .  .  You  know  you  are  quite  stimulating 
to  me,  Dulcie.  You  excite  a  painter's  imagination. 

99 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


It's  rather  odd,"  he  added  naively,  "that  I  never  dis 
covered  you  before;  and  I've  known  you  over  two 
years." 

He  had  seated  himself  on  the  sofa  while  discoursing. 
Now  he  got  up,  touched  a  bell  twice.  The  Finnish 
maid,  Selinda,  with  her  high  cheek-bones,  frosty  blue 
eyes  and  colourless  hair,  appeared  in  cap  and  apron. 

"Selinda,"  he  said,  "take  Miss  Dulcie  into  my  room. 
In  a  long,  leather  Turkish  box  on  the  third  shelf  of 
my  clothes  closet  is  a  silk  and  gold  costume  and  a  lot 
of  jade  jewelry.  Please  put  her  into  it." 

So  Dulcie  Soane  went  away  with  her  cat  in  her  arms, 
beside  the  neat  and  frosty-eyed  Selinda;  and  Barres 
opened  a  portfolio  of  engravings,  where  were  gathered 
the  lovely  aristocrats  of  Van  Dyck  and  Rubens  and 
Gainsborough  and  his  contemporaries — a  charmingly 
mixed  company,  separated  by  centuries  and  frontiers, 
yet  all  characterised  by  a  common  something — some 
inexplicable  similarity  which  Barres  recognised  with 
out  defining. 

"It's  rather  amusing,"  he  murmured,  "but  that  kid, 
Dulcie,  seems  to  remind  me  of  these  people — somehow 
or  other.  ...  One  scarcely  looks  for  qualities  in  the 
child  of  an  Irish  janitor.  ...  I  wonder  who  her  mother 
was.  .  .  ." 

When  he  looked  up  again  Dulcie  was  standing  there 
on  the  thick  rug.  On  her  naked  feet  were  jade  brace 
lets,  jade-set  rings  on  her  little  toes;  a  cascade  of  jade 
and  gold  falling  over  her  breasts  to  the  straight,  nar 
row  breadth  of  peacock  hue  which  fell  to  her  ankles. 
!And  on  her  childish  head,  clasping  the  ruddy  bobbed 
hair,  glittered  the  j  ade-incrusted  diadem  of  a  fairy 
princess  of  Cathay. 

The  Prophet,  gathered  close  to  her  breast,  stared 
100 


"YOU  LITTLE   MIRACLE!" 


OPPORTUNITY  KNOCKS 


back  at  Barres  with  eyes  that  dimmed:  thV  splenetic^ 
jade  about  him. 

"That  settles  it,"  he  said,  the  tint  of  excitement  rk-: 
ing  in  his  cheeks.  "I  have  discovered  a  model  and  a 
wonder!  And  right  here  is  where  I  paint  my  winter 
Academy — right  here  and  right  now!  .  .  .  And  I  call 
it  'The  Prophets.'  Climb  up  on  that  model  stand  and 
squat  there  cross-legged,  and  stare  at  me — straight  at 
me — the  way  your  cat  stares!  .  .  .  There  you  are. 
That's  right!  Don't  move.  Stay  put  or  I'll  come 
over  and  bow-string  you! — you  little  miracle!" 

"Do — you  mean  me?"  faltered  Dulcie. 

"You  bet,  Sweetness !  Do  you  know  how  beautiful 
you  are?  Well,  never  mind "  He  had  begun  al 
ready  to  draw  with  a  wet  brush,  and  now  he  relapsed 
into  absorbed  silence. 

The  Prophet  watched  him  steadily.  The  studio  be 
came  intensely  still. 


VIII 

DULCIE    ANSWEES 

THE  studio  door  bell  rang  while  Barres  was  at 
breakfast  one  morning  late  in  June.  Aristoc- 
rates  leisurely  answered  the  door,  but  shut  it 
again  immediately  and  walked  out  into  the  kitchenette 
without  any  explanation. 

Selinda  removed  the  breakfast  cover  and  fetched  the 
newspaper.  Later,  Aristocrates,  having  washed  his 
master's  brushes,  brought  them  into  the  studio  minc- 
ingly,  upon  a  silver  service-salver. 

"No  letters?"  inquired  Barres,  glancing  up  over  the 
morning  paper  and  laying  aside  his  cigarette. 

"No  letters,  suh.  No  co'espondence  in  any  shape, 
fo'm  or  manner,  suh." 

"Anybody  to  see  me?"  inquired  Barres,  always 
amused  at  Aristocrates'  flights  of  verbiage. 

"Nobody,  suh,  excusin'  a  persistless  'viduality  in- 
quihin'  fo'  you,  suh." 

"What  persistless  individuality  was  that?"  asked 
Barres. 

"A  ve'y  or-nary  human  objec',  suh,  pahshially  af 
flicted  with  one  bad  eye." 

"That  one-eyed  man?  He's  been  here  several  times, 
hasn't  he?  Why  does  he  come?" 

"Fo'  commercial  puhposes,  suh." 

"Oh,  a  pedlar?" 

"He  mentions  a  desiah,  suh,  to  dispose,  commer 
cially,  of  vahious  impo'ted  materials  requiahed  by  ah- 
tists." 


DULCIE  ANSWERS 


"Didn't  you  show  him  the  sign  in  the  hall,  'No  ped 
lars  allowed'?" 

"Yaas,  suh." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"I  would  not  demean  myse'f  to  repeat  what  this  hu 
man  objec'  said,  suh." 

"And  what  did  you  do  then?" 

"Mistuh  Barres,  suh,  I  totally  igno'hed  that  man," 
replied  Aristocrates  languidly. 

"Quite  right.  But  you  tell  Soane  to  enforce  the 
rule  against  pedlars.  Every  day  there  are  two  or 
three  of  them  ringing  at  the  studio,  trying  to  sell  col 
ours,  laces,  or  fake  oriental  rugs.  It  annoys  me.  Se- 
linda  can't  hear  the  bell  and  I  have  to  leave  my  work 
and  open  the  door.  Tell  that  persistless  one-eyed  man 
to  keep  away.  Tell  Soane  to  bounce  him  next  time  he 
enters  Dragon  Court.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Yaas,  suh.  But  Soane,  suh,  he's  a  might  friendly 
Irish.  He's  spo'tin'  'round  Grogan's  nights,  'longa 
this  here  one-eyed  'viduality.  Yaas,  suh.  I  done  seen 
'em  co-gatherin'  on  vahious  occasionalities." 

"Oho!"  commented  Barres.  "It's  graft,  is  it?  This 
one-eyed  pedlar  meets  Soane  at  Grogan's  and  bribes 
him  with  a  few  drinks  to  let  him  peddle  colours  in 
Dragon  Court!  That's  the  Irish  of  it,  Aristocrates. 
I  began  to  suspect  something  like  that.  All  right. 
I'll  speak  to  Soane  myself.  .  .  .  Leave  the  studio  door 
open ;  it's  warm  in  here." 

The  month  of  May  was  now  turning  somewhat  sul 
try  as  it  melted  into  June.  Every  pivot-pane  in  the 
big  studio  window  had  been  swung  wide  open.  The 
sun  had  already  clothed  every  courtyard  tree  with 
dense  and  tender  foliage ;  hyacinth  and  tulip  were  gone 
and  Soane's  subscription  geraniums  blazed  in  their 

103 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


place  like  beds  of  coals  heaped  up  on  the  grass  plot  of 
Dragon  Court. 

But  blue  sky,  sunshine  of  approaching  summer,  gen 
tle  winds  and  freshening  rains  brought  only  restless 
ness  to  New  Yorkers  that  month  of  May. 

Like  the  first  two  years  of  the  war,  the  present  year 
seemed  strange,  unreal;  its  vernal  breezes  brought  no 
balm,  its  blue  skies  no  content.  The  early  summer 
sunlight  seemed  almost  uncanny  in  a  world  where,  be 
yond  the  sea,  millions  of  men  at  arms  swayed  cease 
lessly  under  sun  and  moon  alike,  interlocked  in  one  gi 
gantic  death  grip ! — a  horrible  and  blood-drenched  hu 
man  chain  of  butchery  stretching  half  around  the 
earth. 

Into  every  Western  human  e}-e  had  come  strange  and 
subtle  shadows  which  did  not  depart  with  moments  of 
forgetful  mirth,  intervals  of  self-absorption,  hours 
filled  with  familiar  interests — the  passions,  hopes,  per 
plexities  of  those  years  which  were  now  no  more. 

Those  years  of  yesterdays !  A  vast  and  depthless 
cleft  already  divided  them  from  to-day.  They  seemed 
as  remote  as  dusty  centuries — those  days  of  an  or 
dered  and  tranquil  world — those  days  of  little  obvious 
faiths  unshattered — even  those  days  of  little  wars,  of 
petty  local  strifes,  of  an  almost  universal  calm  and 
peace  and  trust  in  brotherhood  and  in  the  obligations 
of  civilisation. 

Familiar  yesterday  had  vanished,  its  creeds  forgot 
ten.  It  was  already  decades  away,  and  fading  like  a 
legend  in  the  ever-increasing  glare  of  the  red  and  pres 
ent  moment. 

And  the  month  of  May  seemed  strange,  and  its  soft 
skies  and  sun  seemed  out  of  place  in  a  world  full  of 
dying — a  world  heavy  with  death — a  western  world 
aloof  from  the  raging  hell  beyond  the  seas,  yet  already 

104 


DULCIE  ANSWERS 


tense  under  the  distant  threat  of  three  continents  in 
flames — and  all  a-quiver  before  the  deathly  menace  of 
that  horde  of  blood-crazed  demons  still  at  large,  still 
unsubdued,  still  ranging  the  ruins  of  the  planet  which 
they  had  so  insanely  set  on  fire. 

Entire  nations  were  still  burning  beyond  the  ocean; 
other  nations  had  sunk  into  cinders.  Over  the  East 
ern  seas  the  furnace  breath  began  to  be  felt  along  the 
out-thrust  coast  lines  of  the  Western  World.  Inland, 
not  yet;  but  every  seaward  city  became  now  conscious 
of  that  first  faint  warning  wave  of  heat  from  hell. 
Millions  of  ears  strained  to  catch  the  first  hushed  whis 
per  of  the  tumult.  Silent  in  its  suspense  the  Great 
Republic  listened.  Only  the  priesthood  of  the  deaf 
and  wooden  gods  continued  voluble.  But  Israel  had 
already  begun  to  lift  up  its  million  eyes ;  and  its  an 
cient  faith  began  to  glow  again;  and  its  trust  was  be 
coming  once  more  a  living  thing — the  half-forgotten 
trust  of  Israel  in  that  half-forgotten  Lord,  who,  in 
the  beginning,  had  been  their  helper  and  their  shield. 

Through  the  open  studio  door  came  Dulcie  Soane. 
The  Prophet  followed  at  her  slender  heels,  gently  wav 
ing  an  urbane  tail. 

After  his  first  smiling  greeting — he  always  rose, 
advanced,  and  took  har  hand  with  that  pleasant  appear 
ance  of  formality  so  adored  by  femininity,  youthful  or 
mature — he  resumed  his  seat  and  continued  to  write 
his  letters. 

These  finished,  he  stamped  them,  rang  for  Aris- 
tocrates,  picked  up  his  palette  and  brushes,  and  pulled 
out  the  easel  upon  which  was  the  canvas  for  the  morn 
ing. 

Dulcie,  still  in  the  hands  of  Selinda,  had  not  yet 
105 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


emerged.  The  Prophet  sat  upright  on  the  carved 
table,  motionless  as  a  cat  of  ebony  with  green- jewelled 
eyes. 

"Well,  old  sport,"  said  Barres,  stepping  across  the 
rug  to  caress  the  cat,  "you  and  your  pretty  mistress 
begin  to  look  very  interesting  on  my  canvas.'* 

The  Prophet  received  the  blandishments  with  digni 
fied  gratitude.  A  discreet  and  feathery  purring  filled 
the  room  as  Barres  stroked  the  jet  black,  silky  fur. 

"Fine  cat,  you  are,"  commented  the  young  man, 
turning  as  Dulcie  entered. 

She  laid  one  hand  on  his  extended  arm  and  sprang 
lightly  to  the  model  stand.  And  the  next  moment  she 
was  seated — a  slim,  gemmed  thing  glimmering  with  im 
perial  jade  from  top  to  toe. 

Barres  laid  the  Prophet  in  her  arms,  stepped  back 
while  Dulcie  arranged  the  docile  cat,  then  retreated  to 
his  canvas. 

"All  right,  Sweetness?" 

"All  right,"  replied  the  child  happily.  And  the 
morning  seance  was  on. 

Barres  was  usually  inclined  to  ramble  along  conver 
sationally  in  his  pleasant,  detached  way  while  at  work, 
particularly  if  work  went  well. 

"Where  were  we  yesterday,  Dulcie?  Oh,  yes;  we 
were  talking  about  the  Victorian  era  and  its  art;  and 
we  decided  that  it  was  not  the  barren  desert  that  the 
ultra-moderns  would  have  us  believe.  That's  what  we 
decided,  wasn't  it?" 

"You  decided,"  she  said. 

"So  did  you,  Dulcie.  It  was  a  unanimous  decision. 
Because  we  both  concluded  that  some  among  the  Vic 
torians  were  full  of  that  sweet,  clean  sanity  which  alone 
endures.  You  recollect  how  our  decision  started?" 

106 


DULCIE  ANSWERS 


"Yes.  It  was  about  my  new  pleasure  in  Tennyson, 
Browning,  Morris,  Arnold,  and  Swinburne." 

"Exactly.  Victorian  poets,  if  sometimes  a  trifle 
stilted  and  self-conscious,  wrote  nobly;  makers  of  Vic 
torian  prose  displayed  qualities  of  breadth,  imagination 
and  vision  and  a  technical  cultivation  unsurpassed. 
The  musical  compositions  of  that  epoch  were  melodi 
ous  and  sometimes  truly  inspired;  never  brutal,  never 
vulgar,  never  degenerate.  And  the  Victorian  sculptors 
and  painters — at  first  perhaps  austerely  pedantic — 
became,  as  they  should  be,  recorders  of  the  times  and 
customs  of  thought,  bringing  the  end  of  the  reign  of 
a  great  Queen  to  an  admirable  renaissance." 

Dulcie's  grey  eyes  never  left  his.  And  if  she  did 
not  quite  understand  every  word,  already  the  dawn 
ing  familiarity  with  his  vocabulary  and  a  general  com 
prehension  of  his  modes  of  self-expansion  permitted  her 
to  follow  him. 

"A  great  Queen,  a  great  reign,  a  great  people,"  he 
rambled  on,  painting  away  all  the  while.  "And  if  in 
that  era  architecture  declined  toward  its  lowest  level 
of  stupidity,  and  if  taste  in  furniture  and  in  the  plas 
tic,  decorative,  and  textile  arts  was  steadily  sinking 
toward  its  lowest  ebb,  and  if  Mrs.  Grundy  trudged  the 
Empire,  paramount,  dull  and  smugly  ferocious,  while 
all  snobbery  saluted  her  and  the  humble  grovelled  be 
fore  her  dusty  brogans,  yet,  Dulcie,  it  was  a  great  era. 

"It  was  great  because  its  faith  had  not  been  rad 
ically  impaired ;  it  was  sane  because  Germany  had  not 
yet  inoculated  the  human  race  with  its  porcine  political 
vulgarities,  its  bestial  degeneracy  in  art.  .  .  .  And  if, 
perhaps,  the  sentimental  in  British  art  and  literature 
predominated,  thank  God  it  had  not  yet  been  tainted 
with  the  stark  ugliness,  the  swinish  nakedness,  the  fe 
rocious  leer  of  things  Teutonic!" 

107 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


He  continued  to  paint  in  silence  for  a  while.  Pres 
ently  the  Prophet  yawned  on  Dulcie's  knees,  display 
ing  a  pink  cavern. 

"Better  rest,"  he  said,  nodding  smilingly  at  Dulcie. 
She  released  the  cat,  who  stretched,  arched  his  back, 
yawned  again  gravely,  and  stalked  away  over  the  vel 
vety  Eastern  carpet. 

Dulcie  got  up  lithely  and  followed  him  on  little  jade- 
encrusted,  naked  feet. 

A  box  of  bon-bons  lay  on  the  sofa;  she  picked  up 
Rossetti's  poems,  turned  the  leaves  with  jewel-laden 
fingers,  while  with  the  other  hand  she  groped  for  a 
bon-bon,  her  grey  eyes  riveted  on  the  pages  before  her. 

During  these  intervals  between  poses  it  was  the 
young  man's  custom  to  make  chalk  sketches  of  the  girl, 
recording  swiftly  any  unstudied  attitude,  any  uncon 
scious  phase  of  youthful  grace  that  interested  him. 

Dulcie,  in  the  beginning,  diffidently  aware  of  this, 
had  now  become  entirely  accustomed  to  it,  and  no 
longer  felt  any  responsibility  to  remain  motionless 
while  he  was  busy  with  red  chalk  or  charcoal. 

When  she  had  rested  sufficiently,  she  laid  aside  her 
book,  hunted  up  the  Prophet,  who  lazily  endured  the 
gentle  tyranny,  and  resumed  her  place  on  the  model 
stand. 

And  so  they  worked  away  all  the  morning,  until 
luncheon  was  served  in  the  studio  by  Aristocrates ;  and 
Barres  in  his  blouse,  and  Dulcie  in  her  peacock  silk, 
her  jade,  and  naked  feet,  gravely  or  lightly  as  their 
moods  dictated,  discussed  an  omelette  and  a  pot  of 
tea  or  chocolate,  and  the  ways  and  manners  and  cus 
toms  of  a  world  which  Dulcie  now  was  discovering  as  a 
brand  new  and  most  enchanting  planet. 


IX 

HER    DAT 

JUNE  was  ending  in  a  very  warm  week.     Work  in 
the   studio  lagged,  partly   because   Dulcie,   pre 
paring  for  graduation,  could  give  Barres  little 
time;  partly  because,  during  June,   that  young  man 
had  been  away  spending  the  week-ends  with  his  par 
ents  and  his  sister  at  Foreland  Farms,  their  home. 

From  one  of  these  visits  he  returned  to  the  city  just 
in  time  to  read  a  frantic  little  note  from  Dulcie  Soane : 

"DEAR  MR.  BARRES,  please,  please  come  to  my  gradua 
tion.  I  do  want  somebody  there  who  knows  me.  And  my  fa 
ther  is  not  well.  Is  it  too  much  to  ask  of  you  ?  I  hadn't  the 
courage  to  speak  to  you  about  it  when  you  were  here,  but  I 
have  ventured  to  write  because  it  will  be  so  lonely  for  me 
to  graduate  without  having  anybody  there  I  know. 

"DULCIE  SOANE." 

It  was  still  early  in  the  morning;  he  had  taken  a 
night  train  to  town. 

So  when  he  had  been  freshened  by  a  bath  and  change 
of  linen,  he  took  his  hat  and  went  down  stairs. 

A  heavy,  pasty-visaged  young  woman  sat  at  the 
desk  in  the  entrance  hall. 

"Where  is  Soane?"  he  inquired. 

"He's  sick." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"In  bed,"  she  replied  indifferently.  The  woman's 
manner  just  verged  on  impertinence.  He  hesitated, 

109 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


then  walked  across  to  the  superintendent's  apartments 
and  entered  without  knocking. 

Soane,  in  his  own  room,  lay  sleeping-  off  the  conse 
quences  of  an  evening  at  Grogan's.  One  glance  was 
sufficient  for  Barres,  and  he  walked  out. 

On  Madison  Avenue  he  found  a  florist,  selected  a  be 
wildering  bouquet,  and  despatched  it  with  a  hasty  note, 
by  messenger,  to  Dulcie  at  her  school.  In  the  note 
he  wrote: 

"I  shall  be  there.     Cheer  up !" 

He  also  sent  more  flowers  to  his  studio,  with  pen 
cilled  orders  to  Aristocrates. 

In  a  toy-shop  he  found  an  appropriate  decoration 
for  the  centre  of  the  lunch  table. 

Later,  in  a  jeweller's,  he  discovered  a  plain  gold 
locket,  shaped  like  a  heart  and  inset  with  one  little  dia 
mond.  A  slender  chain  by  which  to  suspend  it  was 
easily  chosen;  and  an  extra  payment  admitted  him  to 
the  emergency  department  where  he  looked  on  while 
an  expert  engraved  upon  the  locket:  "Dulcie  Soane 
from  Garret  Barres,"  and  the  date. 

After  that  he  went  into  the  nearest  telephone  booth 
and  called  up  several  people,  inviting  them  to  dine 
with  him  that  evening. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  now.  He  took  his  little 
gift,  stopped  a  taxi,  and  arrived  at  the  big  brick  high- 
school  just  in  time  to  enter  with  the  last  straggling 
parents  and  family  friends. 

The  hall  was  big  and  austerely  bare,  except  for  the 
ribbons  and  flags  and  palms  which  decorated  it.  It 
was  hot,  too,  though  all  the  great  blank  windows  had 
been  swung  open  wide. 

The  usual  exercises  had  already  begun;  there  were 
speeches  from  Authority;  prayers  by  Divinity;  choral 
effects  by  graduating  pulchritude. 

110 


HER  DAY 


The  class,  attired  in  white,  appeared  to  average 
much  older  than  Dulcie.  He  could  see  her  now,  in  her 
reconstructed  communion  dress,  holding  the  big  bou 
quet  which  he  had  sent  her,  one  madonna  lily  of  which 
she  had  detached  and  pinned  over  her  breast. 

Her  features  were  composed  and  delicately  flushed; 
her  bobbed  hair  was  tucked  up,  revealing  the  snowy 
neck. 

One  girl  after  another  advanced  and  read  or  spoke, 
performing  the  particular  parlour  trick  assigned  her 
in  the  customary  and  perfectly  unremarkable  manner 
characteristic  of  such  affairs. 

Rapturous  parental  demonstrations  greeted  each  ef 
fort  ;  piano,  violin  and  harp  filled  in  nobly.  A  slight 
haze  of  dust,  incident  to  pedalistic  applause,  invaded 
the  place ;  there  was  an  odour  of  flowers  in  the  heated 
atmosphere. 

Glancing  at  a  programme  which  he  had  found  on  his 
seat,  Barres  read:  "Song:  Dulcie  Soane." 

Looking  up  at  her  where  she  sat  on  the  stage,  among 
her  comrades  in  white,  he  noticed  that  her  eyes  were 
busy  searching  the  audience — possibly  for  him,  he 
thought,  experiencing  an  oddly  pleasant  sensation  at 
the  possibility. 

The  time  at  length  arrived  for  Dulcie  to  do  her  par 
lour  trick ;  she  rose  and  came  forward,  clasping  the 
big,  fragrant  bouquet,  prettily  flushed  but  self-pos 
sessed.  The  harp  began  a  little  minor  prelude — some 
thing  Irish  and  not  very  modern.  Then  Dulcie's  pure, 
untrained  voice  stole  winningly  through  the  picked 
harp-strings'  hesitation : 

"Heart  of  a  colleen, 
Where  do  you  roam? 

Heart  of  a  colleen, 
111 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Far  from  your  home? 

Laden  with  love  you  stole  from  her  breast! 

Wandering  dove,  return  to  your  nest! 

Sodgers   are  sailin* 
Away  to  the  wars; 

Ladies   are   wailin' 
Their  woe  to  the  stars; 

Why  is  the  heart  of  you  straying  so  soon — 
Heart  that  was  part  of  you,  Eileen  Aroon? 

Lost  to  a  sodger, 
Gone  is  my  heart! 

Lost  to  a  sodger, 

Now  we  must  part 

I  and  my  heart — for  it  journeys  afar 
Along  with  the  sodgers  who  sail  to  the  war! 

Tears  that  near  blind  me 
My  pride  shall  dry, 

Wisha!  don't  mind  me! 
Lave  a  lass  cry! 

Only  a  sodger  can  whistle  the  tune 
That  coaxes  the  heart  out  of  Eileen  Aroon !" 

And  Dulcie's  song  ended. 

Almost  instantly  the  audience  had  divined  in  the 
words  she  sang  a  significance  which  concerned  them — 
a  warning — perhaps  a  prophecy.  The  69th  Regiment 
of  New  York  infantry  was  Irish,  and  nearly  every  seat 
in  the  hall  held  a  relative  of  some  young  fellow  serving 
in  its  ranks. 

The  applause  was  impulsive,  stormy,  persistent;  the 
audience  was  demanding  the  young  girl's  recall;  the 
noise  they  made  became  overwhelming,  checking  the 
mediating  music  and  baffling  the  next  embarrassed  grad 
uate,  scheduled  to  read  an  essay,  and  who  stood  there 
mute,  her  manuscript  in  her  hand. 


HER  DAY 


Finally  the  principal  of  the  school  arose,  went  over 
to  Dulcie,  and  exchanged  a  few  words  with  her.  Then 
he  came  forward,  hand  lifted  in  appeal  for  silence. 

"The  music  and  words  of  the  little  song  you  have 
just  heard,"  he  said,  "were  written,  I  have  just  learned, 
by  the  mother  of  the  girl  who  sang  them.  They  were 
written  in  Ireland  a  number  of  years  ago,  when  Irish 
regiments  were  sent  away  for  over-seas  service.  Neither 
words  nor  song  have  ever  been  published.  Miss  Soane 
found  them  among  her  mother's  effects. 

"I  thought  the  story  of  the  little  song  might  inter 
est  you.  For,  somehow,  I  feel — as  I  think  you  all  feel 
— that  perhaps  the  day  may  come — may  be  near — 
when  the  hearts  of  our  women,  too,  shall  be  given  to 
their  soldiers — sons,  brothers,  fathers — who  are  'sailin* 
away  to  the  wars.'  But  if  that  time  comes — which 
God  avert ! — then  I  know  that  every  man  here  will  do 
his  duty.  .  .  .  And  every  woman.  .  .  .  And  I  know 
that: 

'Tears  that  near  blind  you, 
Your  pride  shall  dry ! '  " 


He  paused  a  moment: 

"Miss  Soane  has  prepared  no  song  to  sing  as  an 
encore.  In  her  behalf,  and  in  my  own,  I  thank  you  for 
your  appreciation.  Be  kind  enough  to  permit  the  ex 
ercises  to  proceed." 

And  the  graduating  exercises  continued. 

Barres  waited  for  Dulcie.  She  came  out  among  the 
first  of  those  departing,  walking  all  alone  in  her  re 
constructed  white  dress,  and  carrying  his  bouquet. 
When  she  caught  sight  of  him,  her  face  became  radi 
ant  and  she  made  her  way  toward  him  through  the 
crowd,  seeking  his  outstretched  hand  with  hers,  cling- 

113 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


ing  to  it  in  a  passion  of  gratitude  and  emotion  that 
made  her  voice  tremulous : 

"My  bouquet — it  is  so  wonderful !  I  love  every 
flower  in  it!  Thank  you  with  all  my  heart.  You  are 
so  kind  to  have  come — so  kind  to  me — so  k-kind " 

"It  is  I  who  should  be  grateful,  Dulcie,  for  your 
charming  little  song,"  he  insisted.  "It  was  fascinat 
ing  and  exquisitely  done." 

"Did  you  really  like  it?"  she  asked  shyly. 

"Indeed  I  did!  And  I  quite  fell  in  love  with  your 
voice,  too — with  that  trick  you  seem  to  possess  of  con 
veying  a  hint  of  tears  through  some  little  grace-note 
now  and  then.  .  .  .  And  there  were  tears  hidden  in 
the  words ;  and  in  the  melody,  too.  .  .  .  And  to  think 
that  your  mother  wrote  it!" 

"Yes." 

After  a  short  interval  of  silence  he  released  her  hand. 

"I  have  a  taxi  for  you,"  he  said  gaily.  "We'll  drive 
home  in  state." 

The  girl  flushed  again  with  surprise  and  gratitude: 

"Are — are  you  coming,  too?" 

"Certainly  I'm  going  to  take  you  home.  Don't  you 
belong  to  me?"  he  demanded  laughingly. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  But  her  forced  little  smile  made 
the  low-voiced  answer  almost  solemn. 

"Well,  then!"  he  said  cheerfully.  "Come  along. 
What's  mine  I  look  after.  We'll  have  lunch  together 
in  the  studio,  if  you  are  too  proud  to  pose  for  a  poor 
artist  this  afternoon." 

At  this  her  sensitive  face  cleared  and  she  laughed 
happily. 

"The  pride  of  a  high-school  graduate!"  he  com 
mented,  as  he  seated  himself  beside  her  in  the  taxi- 
cab.  "Can  anything  equal  it?" 

"Yes." 

114 


HER  DAY 


"What?" 

"Her  pride  in  your — friendship,"  she  ventured. 

Which  unexpected  reply  touched  and  surprised  him. 

"You  dear  child!"  he  said;  "I'm  proud  of  your 
friendship,  too.  Nothing1  ought  to  make  a  man  prouder 
than  winning  a  young  girl's  confidence." 

"You  are  so  kind,"  she  sighed,  touching  the  blos 
soms  in  her  bouquet  with  slender  fingers  that  trembled 
a  little.  For  she  would  have  offered  him  a  flower  from 
it  had  she  found  courage;  but  it  seemed  presumptuous 
and  she  dropped  her  hand  into  her  lap  again. 

Aristocrates  opened  the  door  for  them :  Belinda  took 
her  away. 

Barres  had  ordered  flowers  for  the  table.  In  the 
middle  of  it  a  doll  stood,  attired  in  academic  cap  and 
gown,  the  Stars  and  Stripes  in  one  hand,  in  the  other 
a  green  flag  bearing  a  gold  harp. 

When  Dulcie  came  in  she  stopped  short,  enchanted 
at  the  sight  of  the  decorated  table.  But  when  Aris 
tocrates  opened  the  kitchen  door  and  her  three  cats 
came  trotting  in,  she  was  overcome. 

For  each  cat  wore  a  red,  white  and  blue  cravat  on 
which  was  pinned  a  silk  shamrock;  and  although 
Strindberg  immediately  keeled  over  on  the  rug  and 
madly  attacked  her  cravat  with  her  hind  toes,  the  gen 
eral  effect  remained  admirable. 

Aristocrates  seated  Dulcie.  Upon  her  plate  was 
the  box  containing  chain  and  locket.  And  the  girl  cast 
a  swift,  inquiring  glance  across  the  centre  flowers  at 
Barres. 

"Yes,  it's  for  you,  Dulcie,"  he  said. 

She  turned  quite  pale  at  sight  of  the  little  gift. 
After  a  silence  she  leaned  on  the  table  with  both  el 
bows,  shading  her  face  with  her  hands. 

115 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


He  let  her  alone — let  the  first  tense  moment  in  her 
youthful  life  ebb  out  of  it;  nor  noticed,  apparently, 
the  furtive  and  swift  touch  of  her  best  handkerchief 
to  her  closed  eyes. 

Aristocrates  brought  her  a  little  glass  of  frosted 
orange  juice.  After  an  interval,  not  looking  at  Barres, 
she  sipped  it.  Then  she  took  the  locket  and  chain  from 
the  satin-lined  box,  read  the  inscription,  closed  her 
lids  for  a  second's  silent  ecstasy,  opened  them  looking 
at  him  through  rapturous  tears,  and  with  her  eyes  still 
fixed  on  him  lifted  the  chain  and  fastened  it  around 
her  slender  neck. 

The  luncheon  then  proceeded,  the  Prophet  gravely 
assisting  from  the  vantage  point  of  a  neighbouring 
chair,  the  Houri,  more  emotional,  promenading  ear 
nestly  at  the  heels  of  Aristocrates.  As  for  Strind- 
berg,  she  possessed  neither  manners  nor  concentration, 
and  she  alternately  squalled  her  desires  for  food  or 
frisked  all  over  the  studio,  attempting  complicated 
maneuvres  with  every  curtain-cord  and  tassel  within 
reach. 

Dulcie  had  found  her  voice  again — a  low,  uncertain, 
tremulous  little  voice  when  she  tried  to  thank  him  for 
the  happiness  he  had  given  her — a  clearer,  firmer  voice 
when  he  dexterously  led  the  conversation  into  channels 
more  familiar  and  serene. 

They  talked  of  the  graduating  exercises,  of  her  part 
in  them,  of  her  classmates,  of  education  in  general. 

She  told  him  that  since  she  was  quite  young  she  had 
learned  to  play  the  piano  by  remaining  for  an  hour 
every  day  after  school,  and  receiving  instruction  from 
a  young  teacher  who  needed  a  little  extra  pin  money. 

As  for  singing,  she  had  had  no  instruction.  Her 
voice  had  never  been  tried,  never  been  cultivated. 

"We'll  have  it  tried  some  day,"  he  said  casually. 
116 


HER  DAY 


But  Dulcie  shook  her  head,  explaining  that  it  was 
an  expensive  process  and  not  to  be  thought  of. 

"How  did  you  pay  for  your  piano  lessons  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  paid  twenty-five  cents  an  hour.  My  mother  left 
a  little  money  for  me  when  I  was  a  baby.  I  spent  it 
all  that  way." 

"Every  bit  of  it?" 

"Yes.  I  had  $500.  It  lasted  me  seven  years — 
from  the  time  I  was  ten  to  now." 

"Are  you  seventeen?     You  don't  look  it." 

"I  know  I  don't.  My  teachers  tell  me  that  my  mind 
is  very  quick  but  my  body  is  slow.  It  annoys  me  to 
be  mistaken  for  a  child  of  fifteen.  And  I  have  to  dress 
that  way,  too,  because  my  dresses  still  fit  me  and  clothes 
are  very  expensive." 

"Are  they?" 

Dulcie  became  confidential  and  loquacious: 

"Oh,  very.  You  don't  know  about  girls'  clothes,  I 
suppose.  But  they  cost  a  very  great  deal.  So  I've 
had  to  wear  out  dresses  I've  had  ever  since  I  was  four 
teen  and  fifteen.  And  so  I  can't  put  up  my  hair  be 
cause  it  would  make  my  dresses  look  ridiculous;  and 
that  renders  the  situation  all  the  worse — to  be  obliged 
to  go  about  with  bobbed  hair,  you  see?  There  doesn't 
seem  to  be  any  way  out  of  it,"  she  ended,  with  a  de 
spairing  little  laugh,  "and  I  was  seventeen  last  Feb 
ruary  !" 

"Cheer  up !  You'll  grow  old  fast  enough.  And  now 
you're  going  to  have  a  jolly  little  salary  as  my  model, 
and  you  ought  to  be  able  to  buy  suitable  clothes. 
Oughtn't  you?" 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  repeated  the  question. 
And  drew  from  her,  reluctantly,  that  her  father,  so 
far,  had  absorbed  what  money  she  had  earned  by  pos 
ing. 

117 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


A  dull  red  gathered  under  the  young  man's  cheek 
bones,  but  he  said  carelessly: 

"That  won't  do.  I'll  talk  it  over  with  your  father. 
I'm  very  sure  he'll  agree  with  me  that  you  should  bank 
your  salary  and  draw  out  what  you  need  for  your  per 
sonal  expenses." 

Dulcie  sat  silent  over  her  fruit  and  bon-bons.  Re 
action  from  the  keen  emotions  of  the  day  had,  perhaps, 
begun  to  have  their  effect. 

They  rose  and  reseated  themselves  on  the  sofa,  where 
she  sat  in  the  corner  among  gorgeous  Chinese  cushions, 
her  reconstructed  dress  now  limp  and  shabby,  the  limp 
madonna  lily  hanging  from  her  breast. 

It  had  been  for  her  the  happiest  day  of  her  life.  It 
had  dawned  the  loneliest,  but  under  the  magic  of  this 
man's  kindness  the  day  was  ending  like  a  day  in  Para 
dise. 

To  Dulcie,  however,  happiness  was  less  dependent 
upon  receiving  than  upon  giving;  and  like  all  things 
feminine,  mature  and  immature,  she  desired  to  serve 
where  her  heart  was  enlisted — began  to  experience  the 
restless  desire  to  give.  What?  And  as  the  question 
silently  presented  itself,  she  looked  up  at  Barres: 

"Could  I  pose  for  you?" 

"On  a  day  like  this!  Nonsense,  Dulcie.  This  is 
your  holiday." 

"I'd  really  like  to — if  you  want  me- " 

"No.  Curl  up  here  and  take  a  nap.  Slip  off  your 
gown  so  you  won't  muss  it  and  ask  Belinda  for  a  ki 
mono.  Because  you're  going  to  need  your  gown  this 
evening,"  he  added  smilingly. 

"Why  ?     Please  tell  me  why  ?" 

"No.  You've  had  enough  excitement.  Tell  Selinda 
to  give  you  a  kimono.  Then  you  can  lie  down  in  my 
room  if  you  like.  Selinda  will  call  you  in  plenty  of 

118 


HER  DAY 


time.     And  after  that  I'll  tell  you  how  we're  going  to 
bring  your  holiday  to  a  gay  conclusion." 

She  seemed  disinclined  to  stir,  curled  up  there,  her 
eyes  brilliant  with  curiosity,  her  lips  a  trifle  parted  in 
a  happy  smile.  She  lay  that  way  for  a  few  moments, 
looking  up  at  him,  her  fingers  caressing  the  locket,  then 
she  sat  up  swiftly. 

"Must  I  take  a  nap?" 

"Certainly." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  flashed  past  him,  and  dis 
appeared  in  the  corridor. 

"Don't  forget  to  wake  me!"  she  called  back. 

"I  won't  forget !" 

When  he  heard  her  voice  again,  conversing  with  Se- 
linda,  he  opened  the  studio  door  and  went  down  stairs. 

Soane,  rather  the  worse  for  wear,  was  at  the  desk, 
and,  standing  beside  him,  was  a  one-eyed  man  carrying 
two  pedlar's  boxes  under  his  arms.  They  both  looked 
around  quickly  when  Barres  appeared.  Before  he 
reached  the  desk  the  one-eyed  man  turned  and  walked 
out  hastily  into  the  street. 

"Soane,"  said  Barres,  "I've  one  or  two  things  to  say 
to  you.  The  first  is  this:  if  you  don't  stop  drinking 
and  if  you  don't  keep  away  from  Grogan's,  you'll  lose 
your  job  here." 

"Musha,  then,  Misther  Barres " 

"Wait  a  moment ;  I'm  not  through.  I  advise  you  to 
stop  drinking  and  to  keep  away  from  Grogan's.  That's 
the  first  thing.  And  next,  go  on  and  graft  as  much 
as  you  like,  only  warn  your  pedlar-friends  to  keep 
away  from  Studio  No.  9.  Do  you  understand?" 

"F'r  the  love  o'  God " 

"Cut  out  the  injured  innocence,  Soane.  I'm  telling 
you  how  to  avoid  trouble,  that's  all." 

"Misther  Barres,  sorr!     As  God  sees  me " 

119 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"I  can  see  you,  too.  I  want  you  to  behave,  Soane. 
This  is  friendly  advice.  That  one-eyed  pedlar  who 
just  beat  it  has  been  bothering  me.  Other  pedlars 
come  ringing  at  the  studio  and  interrupt  and  annoy 
me.  You  know  the  rules.  If  the  other  tenants  care  to 
stand  for  it,  all  right.  But  I'm  through.  Is  that 
plain?" 

"It  is,  sorr,"  said  the  unabashed  delinquent.  The 
faintest  glimmer  of  a  grin  came  into  his  battered  eyes. 
"Sorra  a  wan  o'  thim  ever  lays  a  hand  to  No.  9  bell 
or  I'll  have  his  life!" 

"One  thing  more,"  continued  Barres,  smiling  in  spite 
of  himself  at  the  Irish  of  it  all.  "I  am  paying  Dulcie 
a  salary " 

"Wisha  then " 

"Stop!  I  tell  you  that  she's  in  my  employment  on 
a  salary.  Don't  ever  touch  a  penny  of  it  again." 

"Sure  the  child's  wages " 

"No,  they  don't  belong  to  the  father.  Legally,  per 
haps,  but  the  law  doesn't  suit  me.  So  if  you  take  the 
money  that  she  earns,  and  blow  it  in  at  Grogan's,  I'll 
have  to  discharge  her  because  I  won't  stand  for  what 
you  are  doing." 

"Would  you  do  that,  Mr.  Barres?" 

"I  certainly  would." 

The  Irishman  scratched  his  curly  head  in  frank  per 
plexity. 

"Dulcie  needs  clothes  suitable  to  her  age,"  contin 
ued  Barres.  "She  needs  other  things.  I'm  going  to 
take  charge  of  her  savings  so  don't  you  attempt  to 
tamper  with  them.  You  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing, 
anyway,  Soane,  if  this  miserable  drink  habit  hadn't  got 
a  hold  on  you.  If  you  don't  quit,  it  will  down  you. 
You'll  lose  your  place  here.  You  know  that.  Try  to 

120 


HER  DAY 


brace  up.  This  is  a  rotten  deal  you're  giving  your 
self  and  your  daughter." 

Soane  wept  easily.  He  wept  now.  Tearful  volu 
bility  followed — picturesque,  lit  up  with  Hibernian 
flashes,  then  rambling,  and  a  hint  of  slyness  in  it  which 
kept  one  weeping  eye  on  duty  watching  Barres  all  the 
while. 

"All  right;  behave  yourself,"  concluded  Barres. 
"And,  Soane,  I  shall  have  three  or  four  people  to  din 
ner  and  a  little  dancing  afterward.  I  want  Dulcie  to 
enjoy  her  graduating  dance." 

"Sure,  Misther  Barres,  you're  that  kind  to  the 
child " 

"Somebody  ought  to  be.  Do  you  know  that  there 
was  nobody  she  knew  to  see  her  graduate  to-day,  ex 
cepting  myself?" 

"Oh,  the  poor  darling !     Sure,  I  was  that  busy " 

"Busy  sleeping  off  a  souse,"  said  Barres  drily. 
"And  by  the  way,  who  is  that  stolid,  German-looking 
girl  who  alternates  with  you  here  at  the  desk?" 

"Miss  Kurtz,  sorr." 

"Oh.  She  seems  stupid.  Where  did  you  dig  her 
up?" 

"A  fri'nd  o'  mine  riccominds  her  highly,  sorr." 

"Is  that  so  ?  Who  is  he  ?  One  of  your  German  ped 
lar  friends  at  Grogan's?  Be  careful,  Soane.  You 
Sinn  Feiners  are  headed  for  trouble." 

He  turned  and  mounted  the  stairs.  Soane  looked 
after  him  with  an  uneasy  expression,  partly  humorous. 

"Ah,  then,  Mr.  Barres,"  he  said,  "don't  be  both- 
erin'  afther  the  likes  of  us  poor  Irish.  Is  there  anny 
harrm  in  a  sup  o'  beer  av  a  Dootchman  pays?" 

Barres  looked  back  at  him: 

"A  one-eyed  Dutchman?" 

"Ah,  g'wan,  sorr,  wid  yer  hokin'  an'  jokin'!     Is  it 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


graft  ye  say?     An*  how  can  ye  say  it,  sorr,  knowin' 
me  as  ye  do,  Misther  Barres?" 

The  impudent  grin  on  the  Irishman's  face  was  too 
much  for  the  young  man.  He  continued  to  mount  the 
stairs,  laughing. 


HER   EVENING 

AS  he  entered  the  studio  he  heard  the  telephone 
ringing.     Presently  Selinda  marched  in: 

"A  lady,  sir,  who  will  not  giff  her  name,  de 
sires  to  spik  to  Mr.  Barres." 

"I  don't  talk  to  anonymous  people,"  he  said  curtly. 

"I  shall  tell  her,  sir?" 

"Certainly.  Did  you  make  Miss  Dulcie  comfort 
able?" 

"Yess,  sir." 

"That's  right.  Now,  take  that  dress  of  Miss  Dul- 
cie's,  go  out  to  some  shop  on  Fifth  Avenue,  buy  a 
pretty  party  gown  of  similar  dimensions,  and  bring 
it  back  with  you.  Take  a  taxi  both  ways.  Wait — 
take  her  stockings  and  slippers,  too,  and  buy  her  some 
fine  ones.  And  some  underwear  suitable."  He  went 
to  a  d^sk,  unlocked  it,  and  handed  the  maid  a  flat 
packet  of  bank-notes.  "Be  sure  the  things  are  nice," 
he  insisted. 

Selinda,  starched,  immaculate,  frosty-eyed,  marched 
out.  She  returned  a  few  moments  later,  wearing  jacket 
and  hat. 

"Sir,  the  lady  on  the  telephone  hass  called  again. 
The  lady  would  inquire  of  Mr.  Barres  if  perhaps  he 
has  recollection  of  the  Fountain  of  Marie  de  Medicis." 

Barres  reddened  with  surprise  and  pleasure: 

"Oh!    Yes,  indeed,  I'll  speak  to  that  lady.    Hang  up 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


the  service  receiver,  Selinda."  And  he  stepped  to  the 
studio  telephone. 

"Nihla?"  he  exclaimed  in  a  low,  eager  voice. 

"C'est  moi,  Thessa!     Have  you  a  letter  from  me?" 

"No,  you  little  wretch!  Oh,  Thessa,  you're  cer 
tainly  a  piker !  Fancy  my  not  hearing  one  word  from 
you  since  April ! — not  a  whisper,  not  a  sign  to  tell  me 
that  you  are  alive " 

"Garry,  hush !  It  was  not  because  I  did  not  wish 
to  see  you " 

"Yes,  it  was!  You  knew  bally  well  that  I  hadn't 
your  address  and  that  you  had  mine!  Is  that  what 
you  call  friendship?" 

"You  don't  understand  what  you  are  saying.  I 
wanted  to  see  you.  It  has  been  impossible " 

"You  are  not  singing  and  dancing  anywhere  in  New 
York.  I  watched  the  papers.  I  even  went  to  the 
Palace  of  Mirrors  to  enquire  if  you  had  signed  with 
them  there.'* 

"Wait!     Be  careful,  please! " 

"Why?" 

"Be  careful  what  you  say  over  the  telephone.  For 
my  sake,  Garry.  Don't  use  my  former  name  or  say 
anything  to  identify  me  with  any  place  or  profession. 
I've  been  in  trouble.  I'm  in  trouble  still.  Had  you 
no  letter  from  me  this  morning?" 

"No." 

"That  is  disquieting  news.  I  posted  a  letter  to  you 
last  night.  You  should  have  had  it  in  your  morning 
mail." 

"No  letter  has  come  from  you.  I  had  no  letters  at 
all  in  the  morning  mail,  and  only  one  or  two  important 


"Then  I'm  deeply  worried.     I  shall  have  to  see  you 
unless  that  letter  is  delivered  to  you  by  evening." 


HER  EVENING 


"Splendid!  But  you'll  have  to  come  to  me,  Thessa. 
I've  invited  a  few  people  to  dine  here  and  dance  after 
wards.  If  you'll  dine  with  us,  I'll  get  another  man  to 
balance  the  table.  Will  you?" 

After  a  moment  she  said: 

"Yes.     What  time?" 

"Eight!  This  is  wonderful  of  you,  Thessa!"  he  said 
excitedly.  "If  you're  in  trouble  we'll  clear  it  up  be 
tween  us.  I'm  so  happy  that  you  will  give  me  this 
proof  of  friendship." 

"You  dear  boy,"  she  said  in  a  troubled  voice.  "I 
should  be  more  of  a  friend  if  I  kept  away  from  you." 

''Nonsense!     You  promise,  don't  you?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Do  you  realise  that  to-night  another 
summer  moon  is  to  witness  our  reunion?  ...  I  shall 
come  to  you  once  more  under  a  full  June  moon.  .  .  . 
And  then,  perhaps,  no  more.  .  .  .  Never.  .  .  .  Un 
less  after  the  world  ends  I  come, to  you  through  shad 
owy  outer  space — a  ghost  drifting — a  shred  of  mist 
across  the  moon,  seeking  you  once  more! " 

"My  poor  child,"  he  said  laughing,  "you  must  be  in 
no  end  of  low  spirits  to  talk  that  way." 

"It  does  sound  morbid.  But  I  have  plenty  of  cour 
age,  Garry.  I  shall  not  snivel  on  the  starched  bosom 
of  your  evening  shirt  when  we  meet.  Done,  a  bientot, 
monsieur.  Soyez  tranquille !  You  shall  not  be  ashamed 
of  me  among  your  guests." 

"Fancy!"  he  laughed  happily.  "Don't  worry, 
Thessa.  We'll  fix  up  whatever  bothers  you.  Eight 
o'clock!  Don't  forget!" 

"I  am  not  likely  to,"  she  said. 


Until  Selinda  returned  from  her  foray  along  Fifth 
Avenue,  Barres  remained  in  the  studio,  lying  in  his 
arm-chair,  still  possessed  by  the  delightful  spell,  still 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


excited  by  the  prospect  of  seeing  Thessalie  Dunois 
again,  here,  under  his  own  roof. 

But  when  the  slant-eyed  and  spotlessly  blond  Finn 
arrived,  he  came  back  out  of  his  retrospective  trance. 

"Did  you  get  some  pretty  things  for  Miss  Soane?" 
he  enquired. 

"Yess,  sir,  be-ootiful."  Selinda  deposited  on  the 
table  a  sheaf  of  paid  bills  and  the  balance  of  the  bank 
notes.  "Would  Mr.  Barres  be  kind  enough  to  inspect 
the  clothes  for  Miss  Soane?" 

"No,  thanks.     You  say  they're  all  right?" 

"Yess,  sir.     They  are  heavenly  be-ootiful." 

"Very  well.  Tell  Aristocrates  to  lay  out  my  clothes 
after  you  have  dressed  Miss  Dulcie.  There  will  be  two 
extra  people  to  dinner.  Tell  Aristocrates.  Is  Miss 
Dulcie  still  asleep?" 

"Yess,  sir." 

"All  right.  Wake  her  in  time  to  dress  her  so  she 

can  come  out  here  and  give  me  a  chance "  He 

glanced  at  the  clock  "Better  wake  her  now,  Selinda. 
It's  time  for  her  to  dress  and  evacuate  my  quarters. 
I'll  take  forty  winks  here  until  she's  ready." 

Barres  lay  dozing  on  the  sofa  when  Dulcie  came  in. 

Selinda,  enraptured  by  her  own  efficiency  in  groom 
ing  and  attiring  the  girl,  marched  behind  her,  unable 
to  detach  herself  from  her  own  handiwork. 

From  crown  to  heel  the  transfiguration  was  abso 
lute — from  the  point  of  her  silk  slipper  to  the  topmost 
curl  on  the  head  which  Selinda  had  dressed  to  per 
fection. 

For  Selinda  had  been  a  lady's  maid  in  great  houses, 
and  also  had  a  mania  for  grooming  herself  with  the 
minute  and  thorough  devotion  of  a  pedigreed  cat.  And 
Dulcie  emerged  from  her  hands  like  some  youthful  sea- 


HER  EVENING 


nymph  out  of  a  bath  of  foam,  snowy-sweet  as  some 
fresh  and  slender  flower. 

With  a  shy  courage  born  with  her  own  transfigura 
tion,  she  went  to  Barres,  where  he  lay  on  the  sofa,  and 
bent  over  him. 

She  had  made  no  sound ;  perhaps  her  nearness  awoke 
him,  for  he  opened  his  eyes. 

"Dulcie!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Do  I  please  you?"  she  whispered. 

He  sat  up  abruptly. 

"You  wonderful  child!"  he  said,  frankly  astonished. 
Whereupon  he  got  off  the  sofa,  walked  all  around  her 
inspecting  her. 

"What  a  get-up!  What  a  girl!"  he  murmured. 
"You  lovely  little  thing,  you  astound  me !  Selinda,  you 
certainly  know  a  thing  or  two.  Take  it  from  me,  you 
do  Miss  Soane  and  yourself  more  credit  in  your  way 
than  I  do  with  paint  and  canvas." 

Dulcie  blushed  vividly ;  the  white  skin  of  Selinda  also 
reddened  with  pleasure  at  her  masters  enthusiasm. 

"Tell  Aristocrates  to  fix  my  bath  and  lay  out  my 
clothes,"  he  said.  "I've  guests  coming  and  I've  got  to 
hustle !"  And  to  Dulcie :  "We're  going  to  have  a  little 
party  in  honour  of  your  graduation.  That's  what  I 
have  to  tell  you,  dear.  Does  it  please  you?  Do  your 
pretty  clothes  please  you?" 

The  girl,  overwhelmed,  could  only  look  at  him.  Her 
lips,  vivid  and  slightly  parted,  quivered  as  her  breath 
came  irregularly.  But  she  found  no  words — nothing 
to  say  except  in  the  passionate  gratitude  of  her  grey 
eyes. 

"You  dear  child,"  he  said  gently.  Then,  after  a  mo 
ment's  silence,  he  eased  the  tension  with  his  quick  smile : 
"Wonder-child,  go  and  seat  yourself  very  carefully, 
and  be  jolly  careful  you  don't  rumple  your  frock,  be- 

127 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


cause  I  want  you  to  astonish  one  or  two  people  this 
evening. " 

Dulcie  found  her  voice: 

"I — I'm  so  astonished  at  myself  that  I  don't  seem 
real.  I  seem  to  be  somebody  else — long-  ago !"  She 
stepped  close  to  him,  opened  her  locket  for  his  inspec 
tion,  holding  it  out  to  him  as  far  as  the  chain  per 
mitted.  It  framed  a  miniature  of  a  red-haired,  grey- 
eyed  girl  of  sixteen. 

"Your  mother,  Dulcie?" 

"Yes.  How  perfectly  it  fits  into  my  locket !  I  carry 
it  always  in  my  purse." 

"It  might  easily  be  yourself,  Dulcie,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice.  "You  are  her  living  image." 

"Yes.  That  is  what  astonishes  me.  To-night,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  look 
like  this  girl  picture  of  my  mother." 

"You  never  thought  so  before?" 

"Never."  She  stood  looking  down  at  the  laughing 
face  in  the  locket  for  a  few  moments,  then,  lifting  her 
eyes  to  his : 

"I've  been  made  over,  in  a  day,  to  look  like  this.  .  .  • 
You  did  it!" 

"Nonsense!     Selinda  and  her  curling  iron  did  it." 

They  laughed  a  little. 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  have  made  me.  You  began  to 
make  me  all  over  three  months  ago — oh,  longer  ago 
than  that ! — you  began  to  remake  me  the  first  time  you 
ever  spoke  to  me — the  first  time  you  opened  your  door 
to  me.  That  was  nearly  two  years  ago.  And  ever  since 
I  have  been  slowly  becoming  somebody  quite  new — in 
side  and  outside — until  to-night,  you  see,  I  begin  to 
look  like  my  mother."  She  smiled  at  him,  drew  a  deep 
breath,  closed  the  locket,  dropped  it  on  her  breast. 

"I  mustn't  keep  you,"  she  said.  "I  wanted  to  show 
128 


HER  EVENING 


the  picture — so  you  can  understand  what  you  have  done 
for  me  to  make  me  look  like  that." 

When  Barres  returned  to  the  studio,  freshened  and 
groomed  for  the  evening,  he  found  Dulcie  at  the  piano, 
playing  the  little  song  she  had  sung  that  morning,  and 
singing  the  words  under  her  breath.  But  she  ceased 
as  he  came  up,  and  swung  around  on  the  piano-stool 
to  confront  him  with  the  most  radiant  smile  he  had 
ever  seen  on  a  human  face. 

"What  a  day  this  has  been !"  she  said,  clasping  her 
hands  tightly.  "I  simply  cannot  make  it  seem  real." 

He  laughed: 

"It  isn't  ended  yet,  either.  There's  a  night  to  every 
day,  you  know.  And  your  graduation  party  will  begin 
in  a  few  moments." 

"I  know.  I'm  fearfully  excited.  You'll  stay  near 
me,  won't  you?" 

"You  bet!  Did  I  tell  you  who  are  coming?  Well, 
then,  you  won't  feel  strange,  because  I've  merely  asked 
two  or  three  men  who  live  in  Dragon  Court — men  you 
see  every  day — Mr.  Trenor,  Mr.  Mandel,  and  Mr. 
Westmore." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  relieved. 

"Also,"  he  said,  "I  have  asked  Miss  Souval — that 
tall,  pretty  girl  who  sometimes  sits  for  Mr.  Trenor — 
Damaris  Souval.  You  remember  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Also,"  he  continued,  "Mr.  Mandel  wishes  to  bring 
a  young  married  woman  who  has  developed  a  violent 
desire  for  the  artistic  and  informal,  but  who  belongs 
in  the  Social  Register."  He  laughed.  "It's  all  right 
if  Corot  Mandel  wants  her.  Her  name  is  Mrs.  Hel- 
mund — Elsena  Helmund.  Mr.  Trenor  is  painting  her." 

Dulcie's  face  was  serious  but  calm. 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"And  then,  to  even  the  table,"  concluded  Barres 
smilingly,  "I  invited  a  girl  I  knew  long  ago  in  Paris. 
Her  name  is  Thessalie  Dunois ;  and  she's  very  lovely  to 
look  upon,  Dulcie.  I  am  very  sure  you  will  like  her." 

There  was  a  silence;  then  the  electric  bell  rang  in 
the  corridor,  announcing  the  arrival  of  the  first  guest. 
As  Barres  rose,  Dulcie  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm — a 
swift,  involuntary  gesture — as  though  the  girl  were 
depending  on  his  protection. 

The  winning  appeal  touched  him  and  amused  him, 
too. 

"Don't  worry,  dear,"  he  said.  "You'll  have  the  pret 
tiest  frock  in  the  studio — if  you  need  that  knowledge 
to  reassure  you " 

The  corridor  door  opened  and  closed.  Somebody 
went  into  his  bedroom  with  Selinda — that  being  the 
only  available  cloak-room  for  women. 


XI 

HEB,    NIGHT 

THESSALIE  DUNOIS!  This  is  charming  of 
you!"  said  Barres,  crossing  the  studio  swiftly 
and  taking  her  hand  in  both  of  his. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  Garry — "  she  looked  past 
him  across  the  studio  at  Dulcie,  and  her  voice  died  out 
for  a  moment.  "Who  is  that  girl?"  she  enquired  under 
her  breath. 

"I'll  present  you " 

"Wait.     Who  is  she?" 

"Dulcie  Soane " 

"Soant?" 

"Yes.     I'll  tell  you  about  her  later " 

"In  a  moment,  Garry."  Thessalie  looked  across  the 
room  at  the  girl  for  a  second  or  two  longer,  then  turned 
a  troubled,  preoccupied  gaze  on  Barres.  "Have  you 
a  letter  from  me?  I  posted  it  last  night." 

"Not  yet." 

The  door-bell  rang.  He  could  hear  more  guests  en 
tering  the  corridor  beyond.  A  faint  smile — the  forced 
smile  of  courage — altered  Thessalie's  features  now,  un 
til  it  became  a  fixed  and  pretty  mask. 

"Contrive  to  give  me  a  moment  alone  with  you  this 
evening,"  she  whispered.  "My  need  is  great,  Garry." 

"Whenever  you  say!     Now?" 

"No.     I  want  to  talk  to  that  young  girl  first." 

They  walked  over  to  where  Dulcie  stood  by  the  piano, 
silent  and  self-possessed. 

131 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Thessa,"  he  said,  "this  is  Miss  Soane,  who  grad 
uated  from  high  school  to-day,  and  in  whose  honour  I 
am  giving  this  little  party."  And  to  Dulcie  he  said: 
"Miss  Dunois  and  I  were  friends  when  I  lived  in  France. 
Please  tell  her  about  your  picture,  which  you  and  I  are 
doing."  He  turned  as  he  finished  speaking,  and  went 
forward  to  welcome  Esme  Trenor  and  Damaris  Souval, 
who  happened  to  arrive  together. 

"Oh,  the  cunning  little  girl  over  there!"  exclaimed 
the  tall  and  lovely  Damaris,  greeting  Barres  with  cor 
dial,  outstretched  hands.  "Where  did  you  find  such 
an  engaging  little  thing?" 

"You  don't  recognise  her?"  he  asked,  amused. 

"I?     No.     Should  I?" 

"She's  Dulcie  Soane,  the  girl  at  the  desk  down 
stairs!"  said  Barres,  delighted.  "This  is  her  party. 
She  has  just  graduated  from  high  school,  and  she " 

"Belongs  to  Barres,"  interrupted  Esme  Trenor  in 
his  drawling  voice.  "Unusual,  isn't  she,  Damaris? — 
logical  anatomy,  ornamental,  vague  development;  nice 
lines,  not  obvious — like  yours,  Damaris,"  he  added  im 
pudently.  Then  waving  his  lank  hand  with  its  over- 
polished  nails:  "I  like  the  indefinite  accented  with  one 
ripping  value.  Look  at  that  hair! — lac  and  burnt 
orange  rubbed  in,  smeared,  then  wiped  off  with  the 
thumb!  You  follow  the  intention,  Barres?" 

"You  talk  too  much,  Esme,"  interrupted  Damaris 
tartly.  "Who  is  that  lovely  being  talking  to  the  little 
Soane  girl,  Garry?" 

"A  friend  of  my  Paris  days — Thessalie  Dunois " 

Again  he  checked  himself  to  turn  and  greet  Corot  Man- 
del,  subtle  creator  and  director  of  exotic  spectacles — 
another  tall  and  rather  heavily  built  man,  with  a  mop 
of  black  and  shiny  hair,  a  monocle,  and  sanguine  fea 
tures  slightly  oriental. 


HER  NIGHT 


With  Corot  Mandel  had  come  Elsena  Helmund — an 
attractive  woman  of  thoroughbred  origin  and  formal 
environment,  and  apparently  fed  up  with  both.  For 
she  frankly  preferred  "grades"  to  "registered  stock,'* 
and  she  prowled  through  every  art  and  theatrical  pur 
lieu  from  the  Mews  to  Westchester,  in  eternal  and  un 
quiet  search  for  an  antidote  to  the  sex-ennui  which  she 
erroneously  believed  to  be  an  intellectual  necessity  for 
self-expression. 

"Who  is  that  winning  child  with  red  hair?"  she  en 
quired,  nodding  informal  recognition  to  the  other 
guests,  whom  she  already  knew.  "Don't  tell  me,"  she 
added,  elevating  a  quizzing  glass  and  staring  at  Dulcie, 
"that  this  engaging  infant  has  a  history  already!  It 
isn't  possible,  with  that  April  smile  in  her  child  eyes !" 

"You  bet  she  hasn't  a  history,  Elsena,"  said  Barres, 
frowning;  "and  I'll  see  that  she  doesn't  begin  one  as 
long  as  she's  in  my  neighbourhood." 

Corot  Mandel,  who  had  been  heavily  inspecting  Dul 
cie  through  his  monocle,  now  stood  twirling  it  by  its 
frayed  and  greasy  cord: 

"I  could  do  something  for  her — unless  she's  particu 
larly  yours,  Barres?"  he  suggested.  "I've  seldom  seen 
a  better  type  in  New  York." 

"You  idiot.  Don't  you  recognise  her?  She's  Dulcie 
Soane!  You  could  have  picked  her  yourself  if  you'd 
had  any  flaire." 

"Oh,  hell,"  murmured  Mandel,  disgusted.  "And  I 
thought  I  possessed  flaire.  Your  private  property,  I 
suppose?"  he  added  sourly. 

"Absolutely.     Keep  off!" 

"Watch  me,"  murmured  Corot  Mandel,  with  a  wry 
face,  as  they  moved  forward  to  join  the  others  and  be 
presented  to  the  little  guest  of  the  evening. 

Westmore  came  in  at  the  same  moment — a  short, 
133 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


blond,  vigorous  young  man,  who  knew  everybody  except 
Thessalie,  and  proceeded  to  smash  the  ice  in  character 
istic  fashion: 

"Dulcie!  You  beautiful  child  I  How  are  you, 
duckey?" — catching  her  by  both  hands, — "a  little  sa 
lute  for  Nunky?  Yes?" — kissing  her  heartily  on  both 
cheeks.  "I've  a  gift  for  you  in  my  overcoat  pocket. 
We'll  sneak  out  and  get  it  after  dinner !"  He  gave  her 
hands  a  hearty  squeeze,  turned  to  the  others :  "I  ought 
to  have  been  Miss  Soane's  godfather.  So  I  appointed 
myself  as  such.  Where  are  the  cocktails,  Garry?" 

Road-to-ruin  cocktails  were  served — frosted  orange 
juice  for  Dulcie.  Everybody  drank  her  health.  Then 
Aristocrates  gracefully  condescended  to  announce  din 
ner.  And  Barres  took  out  Dulcie,  her  arm  resting  light 
as  a  snowflake  on  his  sleeve. 

There  were  flowers  everywhere  in  the  dining-room; 
table,  buffet,  curtains,  lustres  were  gay  with  early  blos 
soms,  exhaling  the  haunting  scent  of  spring. 

"Do  you  like  it,  Dulcie?"  he  whispered. 

She  merely  turned  and  looked  at  him,  quite  unable 
to  speak,  and  he  laughed  at  her  brilliant  eyes  and 
flushed  cheeks,  and,  dropping  his  right  hand,  squeezed 
hers. 

"It's  your  party,  Sweetness — all  yours !  You  must 
have  a  good  time  every  minute!"  And  he  turned,  still 
smiling,  to  Thessalie  Dunois  on  his  left: 

"It's  quite  wonderful,  Thessa,  to  have  you  here — to 
be  actually  seated  beside  you  at  my  own  table.  I  shall 
not  let  you  slip  away  from  me  again,  you  enchanting 
ghost! — and  leave  me  with  a  dislocated  heart." 

"Garry,  that  sounds  almost  sentimental.  We're  not, 
you  know." 

"How  do  I  know?  You  never  gave  me  a  chance  to 
be  sentimental." 

134 


HER  NIGHT 


She  laughed  mirthlessly: 

"Never  gave  you  a  chance?  And  our  brief  but  head 
long  career  together,  monsieur?  What  was  it  but  a 
continuous  cataract  of  chances?" 

"But  we  were  laughing  our  silly  heads  off  every  min 
ute!  I  had  no  opportunity." 

That  seemed  to  amuse  her  and  awaken  the  ever- 
latent  humour  in  her. 

"Opportunity,"  she  observed  demurely,  "should  be 
created  and  taken,  not  shyly  awaited  with  eyes  rolled 
upward  and  a  sucked  thumb." 

They  both  laughed  outright.  Her  colour  rose;  the 
old  humorous  challenge  was  in  her  eyes  again;  the 
subtle  mask  was  already  slipping  from  her  features, 
revealing  them  in  all  their  charming  recklessness. 

"You  know  my  creed,"  she  said;  "to  go  forward — 
laugh — and  accept  what  Destiny  sends  you — still 
laughing!"  Her  smile  altered  again,  became,  for  a 
moment,  strange  and  vague.  "God  knows  that  is  what 
I  am  doing  to-night,"  she  murmured,  lifting  her  slim 
glass,  in  which  the  gush  of  sunny  bubbles  caught  the 
candle-light.  "To  Destiny — whatever  it  may  be! 
Drink  with  me,  Garry!" 

Around  them  the  chatter  and  vivacity  increased,  as 
Damaris  ended  a  duel  of  wit  with  Westmore  and  pre 
pared  for  battle  with  Corot  Mandel.  Everybody 
seemed  to  be  irresponsibly  loquacious  except  Dulcie, 
who  sat  between  Barres  and  Esme  Trenor,  a  silent, 
smiling,  reserved  little  listener.  For  Barres  was  still 
conversationally  involved  with  Thessalie,  and  Esme 
Trenor,  languid  and  detached,  being  entirely  ignored 
by  Damaris,  whom  he  had  taken  out,  awaited  his  own 
proper  modicum  of  worship  from  his  silent  little  neigh 
bour  on  his  left — which  tribute  he  took  for  granted 

135 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


was   his   sacred  due,   and  which,  hitherto,  he  had  in 
variably  received  from  woman. 

But  nobody  seemed  to  be  inclined  to  worship;  Da- 
maris  scarcely  deigned  to  notice  him,  his  impudence, 
perhaps,  still  rankling.  Thessalie,  laughingly  en 
gaged  with  Bar  res,  remained  oblivious  to  the  fashion 
able  portrait  painter.  As  for  Elsena  Helmund,  that 
youthful  matron  was  busily  pretending  to  comprehend 
Corot  Mandel's  covert  orientalisms,  and  secretly  won 
dering  whether  they  were,  perhaps,  as  improper  as 
Westmore  kept  whispering  to  her  they  were,  urging  her 
to  pick  up  her  skirts  and  run. 

Esme  Trenor  permitted  a  few  weary  but  slightly 
disturbed  glances  to  rest  on  Dulcie  from  time  to  time, 
but  made  no  effort  to  entertain  her. 

And  she,  on  her  part,  evinced  no  symptoms  of  wor 
shipping  him.  And  all  the  while  he  was  thinking  to 
himself : 

"Can  this  be  the  janitor's  daughter?  Is  she  the 
same  rather  soiled,  impersonal  child  whom  I  scarcely 
ever  noticed — the  thin,  immature,  negligible  little 
drudge  with  a  head  full  of  bobbed  red  hair?" 

His  lack  of  vision,  of  finer  discernment,  deeply  an 
noyed  him.  Her  lack  of  inclination  to  worship  him, 
now  that  she  had  the  God-sent  opportunity,  irritated 
him. 

"The  silly  little  bounder,'*  he  thought,  "how  can  she 
sit  beside  me  without  timidly  venturing  to  entertain 
me?" 

He  stole  another  profoundly  annoyed  glance  at  Dul 
cie.  The  child  was  certainly  beautiful — a  slim,  lovely, 
sensitive  thing  of  qualities  so  delicate  that  the  painter 
of  pretty  women  became  even  more  surprised  and 
chagrined  that  it  had  taken  Barres  to  discover  this  de 
sirable  girl  in  the  silent,  shabby  child  of  Larry  Soane. 

136 


HER  NIGHT 


Presently  he  lurched  part  way  toward  her  in  his 
chair,  and  looked  at  her  with  bored  but  patronising 
encouragement. 

"Talk  to  me,"  he  said  languidly. 

Dulcie  turned  and  looked  at  him  out  of  uninterested 
grey  eyes. 

"What?"  she  said. 

"Talk  to  me,"  he  repeated  pettishly. 

"Talk  to  yourself,"  retorted  Dulcie,  and  turned 
again  to  listen  to  the  gay  nonsense  which  Damaris  and 
Westmore  were  exchanging  amid  peals  of  general 
laughter. 

But  Esme  Trenor  was  thunderstruck.  A  deep  and 
painful  colour  stained  his  pallid  features.  Never  be 
fore  had  mortal  woman  so  flouted  him.  It  was  unthink 
able.  It  really  wouldn't  do.  There  must  be  some  ex 
planation  for  this  young  girl's  monstrous  attitude  to 
ward  offered  opportunity. 

"I  say,"  he  insisted,  still  very  red,  "are  you  bashful, 
by  any  chance?" 

Dulcie  slowly  turned  toward  him  again: 

"Sometimes  I  am  bashful;  not  now." 

"Oh.     Then  wouldn't  you  like  to  talk  to  me?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Fancy!    And  why  not,  Dulcie?" 

"Because  I  haven't  anything  to  say  to  you." 

"Dear  child,  that  is  the  incentive  to  all  conversation 
-. — lack  of  anything  to  say.  You  should  practise  the 
art  of  saying  nothing  politely." 

"You  should  have  practised  it  enough  to  say  good 
morning  to  me  during  these  last  five  years,"  said  Dulcie 
gravely. 

"Oh,  I  say!  You're  rather  severe,  you  know!  You 
were  just  a  little  thing  running  about  underfoot! — I'm 

sorry  you  feel  angry " 

137 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"I  do  not.  But  how  can  I  have  anything  to  talk  to 
you  about,  Mr.  Trenor,  when  you  have  never  even 
noticed  me  all  these  years,  although  often  I  have  handed 
you  your  keys  and  your  letters." 

"It  was  quite  stupid  of  me.  I'm  sorry.  But  a  man, 
you  see,  doesn't  notice  children " 

"Some  men  do." 

"You  mean  Mr.  Barres !  That  is  unkind.  Why  rub 
it  in,  Dulcie?  I'm  rather  an  interesting  fellow,  after 
all." 

"Are  you?"  she  asked  absently. 

Her  honest  indifference  to  him  was  perfectly  appar 
ent  to  Esme  Trenor.  This  would  never  do.  She  must 
be  subdued,  made  sane,  disciplined ! 

"Do  you  know,"  he  drawled,  leaning  lankly  nearer, 
dropping  both  arms  on  the  cloth,  and  fixing  his  heavy- 
lidded  eyes  intensely  on  her,  " — do  you  know — do  you 
guess,  perhaps,  why  I  never  spoke  to  you  in  all  these 
years  ?" 

"You  did  not  trouble  yourself  to  speak  to  me,  I 
imagine." 

"You  are  wrong.  I  was  afraid!"  And  he  stared  at 
her  pallidly. 

"Afraid?"  she  repeated,  puzzled. 

He  leaned  nearer,  confidential,  sad: 

"Shall  I  tell  you  a  precious  secret,  Dulcie?  I  am  a 
coward.  I  am  a  slave  of  fear.  I  am  afraid  of  beauty ! 
Isn't  that  a  very  strange  thing  to  say?  Can  you  un 
derstand  the  subtlety  of  that  indefinable  psychology? 
Fear  is  an  emotion.  Fear  of  the  beautiful  is  still  a 
subtler  emotion.  Fear,  itself,  is  beautiful  beyond  words. 
Beauty  is  Fear.  Fear  is  Beauty.  Do  you  follow  me, 
Dulcie?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  bewildered. 

Esme  sighed: 

138 


HER  NIGHT 


"Some  day  you  will  follow  me.  It  is  my  destiny  to 
be  followed,  pursued,  haunted  by  loveliness  impotently 
seeking  to  express  itself  to  me,  while  I,  fearing  it,  dare 
only  to  express  my  fear  with  brush  and  pencil!  .  .  . 
When  shall  I  paint  you?"  he  added  with  sad  benevo 
lence. 

"What?" 

"When  shall  I  try  to  interpret  upon  canvas  my  subtle 
fear  of  you?"  And,  as  the  girl  remained  mute: 
"When,"  he  explained  languidly,  "shall  I  appoint  an 
hour  for  you  to  sit  to  me?" 

"I  am  Mr.  Barres's  model,"  she  said,  flushing. 

"I  shall  have  to  arrange  it  with  him,  then,"  he 
nodded,  wearily. 

"I  don't  think  you  can." 

"Fancy!     Why  not?" 

"Because  I  do  not  wish  to  sit  to  anybody  except  Mr. 
Barres,"  she  said  candidly,  "and  what  you  paint  does 
not  interest  me  at  all." 

"Are  you  familiar  with  my  work?"  he  asked  incredu 
lously. 

She  shook  her  head,  shrugged,  and  turned  to  Barres, 
who  had  at  last  relinquished  Thessalie  to  Westmore. 

"Well,  Sweetness,"  he  said  gaily,  "do  you  get  on 
with  Esme  Trenor?" 

"He  talked,"  she  said  in  a  voice  perfectly  audible  to 
Esme. 

Barres  glanced  toward  Esme,  secretly  convulsed,  but 
that  young  apostle  of  Fear  had  swung  one  thin  leg  over 
the  other  and  was  now  presenting  one  shoulder  and  the 
back  of  his  head  to  them  both,  apparently  in  delight 
ful  conversation  with  Elsena  Helmund,  who  was  fed 
up  on  him  and  his  fears. 

"You  must  always  talk  to  your  neighbours  at  din 
ner,"  insisted  Barres,  still  immensely  amused.  "Esme 

139 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


is  a  very  popular  man  with  fashionable  women,  Dulcie, 
— a  painter  in  much  demand  and  much  adored.  .  .  . 
Why  do  you  smile?" 

Dulcie  smiled  again,  deliciously. 

"Anyway,"  continued  Barres,  "you  must  now  give 
the  signal  for  us  to  rise  by  standing  up.  I'm  so  proud 
of  you,  Dulcie,  darling !"  he  added  impulsively ;  " — and 
everybody  is  mad  about  you!" 

"You  made  me — "  she  laughed  mischievously,  " — out 
of  a  rag  and  a  bone  and  a  hank  of  hair !" 

"You  made  yourself  out  of  nothing,  child!  And 
everybody  thinks  you  delightful." 

"Do  you?^ 

"You  dear  girl ! — of  course  I  do.  Does  it  make  such 
a  difference  to  you,  Dulcie — my  affection  for  you?" 

"Is  it— affection?" 

"It  certainly  is.    Didn't  you  know  it?" 

"I  didn't — know — what  it  was." 

"Of  course  it  is  affection.  Who  could  be  with  you 
as  I  have  been  and  not  grow  tremendously  fond  of 
you?" 

"Nobody  ev,er  did  except  you.  Mr.  Westmore  was 
always  nice.  But — but  you  are  so  kind — I  can't  ex 
press — I — c-can't "  Her  emotion  checked  her. 

"Don't  try,  dear!"  he  said  hastily.  "We're  going 
in  to  have  a  jolly  dance  now.  You  and  I  begin  it  to 
gether.  Don't  you  let  any  other  fellow  take  you 
away !" 

She  looked  up,  laughed  blissfully,  gazing  at  him 
with  brilliant  eyes  a  little  dimmed. 

"They'll  all  be  at  your  heels,"  he  said,  beginning  to 
comprehend  the  beauty  he  had  let  loose  on  the  world, 
" — every  man- jack  of  them,  mark  my  prophecy!  But 
ours  is  the  first  dance,  Dulcie.  Promise?" 

"I  do.  And  I  promise  you  the  next — please " 

140 


HER  NIGHT 


"Well,  I'm  host,"  he  said  doubtfully,  and  a  trifle 
taken  aback.  "We'll  have  some  other  dances  together, 
anyway.  But  I  couldn't  monopolise  you,  Sweetness." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  silently,  then  her  grey,  intel 
ligent  eyes  rested  directly  on  Thessalie  Dunois. 

"Will  you  dance  with  her?"  she  asked  gravely. 

"Yes,  of  course.  And  with  the  others,  too.  Tell 
me,  Dulcie,  did  you  find  Miss  Dunois  agreeable?" 

"I— don't— know." 

"Why,  you  ought  to  like  her.  She's  very  attrac 
tive." 

"She  is  quite  beautiful,"  said  the  girl,  watching 
Thessalie  across  his  shoulder. 

"Yes,  she  really  is.  What  did  you  and  she  talk 
about?" 

"Father,"  replied  Dulcie,  determined  to  have  no  fur 
ther  commerce  with  Thessalie  Dunois  which  involved 
a  secrecy  excluding  Barres.  "She  asked  me  if  he  were 
not  my  father.  Then  she  asked  me  a  great  many  stupid 
questions  about  him.  And  about  Miss  Kurtz,  who 
takes  the  desk  when  father  is  out.  Also,  she  asked 
me  about  the  mail  and  whether  the  postman  delivered 
letters  at  the  desk  or  in  the  box  outside,  and  about  the 
tenants'  mail  boxes,  and  who  distributed  the  letters 
through  them.  She  seemed  interested,"  added  the  girl 
indifferently,  "but  I  thought  it  a  silly  subject  for  con 
versation." 

Barres,  much  perplexed,  sat  gazing  at  Dulcie  in  si 
lence  for  a  moment,  then  recollecting  his  duty,  he 
smiled  and  whispered: 

"Stand  up,  now,  Dulcie.  You  are  running  this 
show." 

The  girl  flushed  and  rose,  and  the  others  stood  up. 
Barres  took  her  to  the  studio  door,  then  returned  to 
the  table  with  the  group  of  men. 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Well,"  he  exclaimed  happily,  "what  do  you  fellows 
think  of  Soane's  little  girl  now?  Isn't  she  the  sweet 
est  thing  you  ever  heard  of  ?" 

"A  peach  !"  said  Westmore,  in  his  quick,  hearty  voice. 
"What's  the  idea,  Garry?  Is  it  to  be  her  career,  this 
posing  business?  And  where  is  it  going  to  land  her? 
In  the  Winter  Garden?" 

"Where  is  it  going  to  land  you?"  added  Esme  im 
pudently. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  myself,"  replied  Barres,  with 
a  troubled  smile.  "The  little  thing  always  appealed 
to  me — her  loneliness  and  neglect,  and — and  something 
about  the  child — I  can't  define  it — — " 

"Possibilities?"  suggested  Mandel  viciously.  "Take 
it  from  me,  you're  some  picker,  Garry." 

"Perhaps.  Anyway,  I've  given  her  the  run  of  my 
place  for  the  last  two  years  and  more.  And  she  has 
been  growing  up  all  the  while,  and  I  didn't  notice  it. 
And  suddenly,  this  spring,  I  discovered  her  for  the 
first  time.  .  .  .  And — well,  look  at  her  to-night!" 

"She's  your  private  model,  isn't  she?"  persisted  Man- 
del. 

"Entirely,"  replied  Barres  drily. 

"Selfish  dog!"  remarked  Westmore,  with  his  lively, 
wholesome  laugh.  "I  once  asked  her  to  sit  for  me — 
more  out  of  good  nature  than  anything  else.  And  a 
jolly  fine  little  model  she  ought  to  make  you,  Garry. 
She's  beginning  to  acquire  a  figure." 

"She's  quite  wonderful  that  way,  too,"  nodded 
Barres. 

"Undraped?"  inquired  Esme. 

"A  miracle,"  nodded  Barres  absently.  "Paint  is  be 
coming  inadequate.  I  shall  model  her  this  summer.  I 
tell  you  I  have  never  seen  anything  to  compare  to  her. 
Never !" 


HER  NIGHT 


"What  else  will  you  do  with  her?"  drawled  Esme. 
"You'll  go  stale  on  her  some  day,  of  course.  Am  I 
next?" 

"No!  ...  I  don't  know  what  she'll  do.  It  begins 
to  look  like  a  responsibility,  doesn't  it?  She's  such  a 
fine  little  girl,"  explained  Barres  warmly.  "I've  grown 
quite  fond  of  her — interested  in  her.  Do  you  know 
she  has  an  excellent  mind?  And  nice,  fastidious  in 
stincts?  She  thinks  straight.  That  souse  of  a  father 
of  hers  ought  to  be  jailed  for  the  way  he  neglects  her." 

"Are  you  thinking  of  adopting  her?"  asked  Trenor, 
with  the  faintest  of  sneers,  which  escaped  Barres. 

"Adopt  a  girl?  Oh,  Lord,  no!  I  can't  do  any 
thing  like  that.  Yet — I  hate  to  think  of  her  future, 
too  .  .  .  unless  somebody  looks  out  for  her.  But  it 
isn't  possible  for  me  to  do  anything  for  her  except 
to  give  her  a  good  job  with  a  decent  man " 

"Meaning  yourself,"  commented  Mandel,  acidly. 

"Well,  I  am  decent,"  retorted  Barres  warmly,  amid 
general  laughter.  "You  fellows  know  what  chances 
she  might  take  with  some  men,"  he  added,  laughing  at 
his  own  warm  retort. 

Esme  and  Corot  Mandel  nodded  piously,  each  per 
fectly  aware  of  what  chance  any  attractive  girl  would 
run  with  his  predatory  neighbour. 

"To  shift  the  subject  of  discourse — that  girl,  Thes- 
salie  Dunois,"  began  Westmore,  in  his  energetic  way, 
"is  about  the  cleverest  and  prettiest  woman  I've  seen 
in  New  York  outside  the  theatre  district." 

"I  met  her  in  France,"  said  Barres,  carelessly. 
"She  really  is  wonderfully  clever." 

"I  shall  let  her  talk  to  me,"  drawled  Esme,  nicking 
at  his  cigarette.  "It  will  be  a  liberal  education  for 
her." 

Mandel's  slow,  oriental  eyes  blinked  contempt;  he 
143 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


caressed  his  waxed  moustache  with  nicotine-stained  fin 
gers: 

"I  am  going  to  direct  an  out-of-door  spectacle — a 
sort  of  play — not  named  yet — up  your  way,  Barres — 
at  Northbrook.  It's  for  the  Belgians.  ...  If  Miss 
Dunois — unless,"  he  added  sardonically,  "you  have  her 
reserved,  also " 

"Nonsense!  You  cast  Thessalie  Dunois  and  she'll 
make  your  show  for  you,  Mandel!"  exclaimed  Barres. 
"I  know  and  I'm  telling  you.  Don't  make  any  mis 
take:  there's  a  girl  who  can  make  good!'* 

"Oh.     Is  she  a  professional?" 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  Barres's  tongue  to  say 
"Rather !"  But  he  checked  himself,  not  knowing  Thes- 
salie's  wishes  concerning  details  of  her  incognito. 

"Talk  to  her  about  it,"  he  said,  rising. 

The  others  laid  aside  cigars  and  followed  him  into 
the  studio,  where  already  the  gramophone  was  going 
and  Aristocrates  and  Belinda  were  rolling  up  the  rugs. 

Barres  and  Dulcie  danced  until  the  music,  twice  re 
vived,  expired  in  husky  dissonance,  and  a  new  disc  was 
substituted  by  Westmore. 

"By  heaven !"  he  said,  "I'll  dance  this  with  my  god 
child  or  I'll  murder  you,  Garry.  Back  up,  there! — 
you  soulless  monopolist!"  And  Dulcie,  half  laughing, 
half  vexed,  was  swept  away  in  Westmore's  vigorous 
arms,  with  a  last,  long,  appealing  look  at  Barres. 

The  latter  danced  in  turn  with  his  feminine  guests, 
as  in  duty  bound — in  pleasure  bound,  as  far  as  con 
cerned  Thessalie. 

"And  to  think,  to  think"  he  repeated,  "that  you  and 
I,  who  once  trod  the  moonlit  way,  June-mad,  moon- 
mad,  should  be  dancing  here  together  once  more!" 

"Alas,"  she  said,  "though  this  is  June  again,  moon 
144 


HER  NIGHT 


and  madness  are  lacking.  So  is  the  enchanted  river 
and  your  canoe.  And  so  is  that  gay  heart  of  mine — 
that  funny,  careless  little  heart  which  was  once  my 
comrade,  sending  me  into  a  happy  gale  of  laughter 
every  time  it  counselled  me  to  folly." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Thessa?" 

"Garry,  there  is  so  much  the  matter  that  I  don't 
know  how  to  tell  you.  .  .  .  And  yet,  I  have  nobody 
else  to  tell.  ...  Is  that  maid  of  yours  German  ?" 

"No,  Finnish." 

"You  can't  be  certain,"  she  murmured.  "Your 
guests  are  all  American,  are  they  not?" 

"Yes." 

"And  the  little  Soane  girl?  Are  her  sympathies 
with  Germany?" 

"Why,  certainly  not!  What  gave  you  that  idea, 
Thessa?" 

The  music  ran  down;  Westmore,  the  indefatigable, 
still  keeping  possession  of  Dulcie,  went  over  to  wind 
up  the  gramophone. 

"Isn't  there  some  place  where  I  could  be  alone  with 
you  for  a  few  minutes?"  whispered  Thessalie. 

"There's  a  balcony  under  the  middle  window.  It 
overlooks  the  court." 

She  nodded  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  they 
walked  to  the  long  window,  opened  it,  and  stepped  out. 

Moonlight  fell  into  the  courtyard,  silvering  every 
thing.  Down  there  on  the  grass  the  Prophet  sat,  mo- 
tionless  as  a  black  sphynx  in  the  lustre  of  the  moon. 

Thessalie  looked  down  into  the  shadowy  court,  then 
turned  and  glanced  up  at  the  tiled  roof  just  above 
them,  where  a  chimney  rose  in  silhouette  against  the 
pale  radiance  of  the  sky. 

Behind  the  chimney,  flat  on  their  stomachs,  lay  two 
men  who  had  been  watching,  through  an  upper  ven- 

145 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


tilating  pane  of  glass,  the  scene  in  the  brilliantly 
lighted  studio  below  them. 

The  men  were  Soane  and  his  crony,  the  one-eyed  ped 
lar.  But  neither  Thessalie  nor  Barres  could  see  them 
up  there  behind  the  chimney. 

Yet  the  girl,  as  though  some  unquiet  instinct  warned 
her,  glanced  up  at  the  eaves  above  her  head  once  more, 
and  Barres  looked  up,  too. 

"What  do  you  see  up  there?"  he  inquired. 

"Nothing.  .  .  .  There  could  be  nobody  up  there  to 
listen,  could  there?" 

He  laughed: 

''Who  would  want  to  climb  up  on  the  roof  to  spy  on 
you  or  me 9> 

"Don't  speak  so  loud,  Garry " 

"What  on  earth  is  the  trouble?" 

"The  same  trouble  that  drove  me  out  of  France," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Don't  ask  me  what  it  was. 
All  I  can  tell  you  is  this:  I  am  followed  everywhere 
I  go.  I  cannot  make  a  living.  Whenever  I  secure  an 
engagement  and  return  at  the  appointed  time  to  fill 
it,  something  happens." 

"What  happens?"  he  asked  bluntly. 

"They  repudiate  the  agreement,"  she  said  in  a  quiet 
voice.  "They  give  no  reasons;  they  simply  tell  me 
that  they  don't  want  me.  Do  you  remember  that  eve 
ning  when  I  left  the  Palace  of  Mirrors?" 

"Indeed,  I  do " 

"That  was  only  one  example.  I  left  with  an  excel 
lent  contract,  signed.  The  next  day,  when  I  returned, 
the  management  took  my  contract  out  of  my  hands 
and  tore  it  up." 

"What!     Why,  that's  outrageous " 

"Hush!  That  is  only  one  instance.  Everywhere  it 
is  the  same.  I  am  accepted  after  a  try-out;  then, 

146 


HER  NIGHT 


without  apparent  reason,  I  am  told  not  to  return." 

"You  mean  there  is  some  conspiracy "  he  be 
gan  incredulously,  but  she  interrupted  him  with  a  white 
hand  over  his,  nervously  committing  him  to  silence: 

"Listen,  Garry!  Men  have  followed  me  here  from 
Europe.  I  am  constantly  watched  in  New  York.  I 
cannot  shake  off  this  surveillance  for  very  long  at  a 
time.  Sooner  or  later  I  become  conscious  again  of 
curious  eyes  regarding  me ;  of  features  that  all  at  once 
become  unpleasantly  familiar  in  the  throng.  After 
several  encounters  in  street  or  car  or  restaurant,  I 
recognise  these.  Often  and  often  instinct  alone  warns 
me  that  I  am  followed;  sometimes  I  am  so  certain  of 
it  that  I  take  pains  to  prove  it." 

"Do  you  prove  it?" 

"Usually." 

"Well,  what  the  devil " 

"Hush!  I  seem  to  be  getting  into  deeper  trouble 
than  that,  Garry.  I  have  changed  my  residence  so 
many,  many  times ! — but  every  time  people  get  into  my 
room  when  I  am  away  and  ransack  my  effects.  .  .  . 
And  now  I  never  enter  my  room  unless  the  landlady 
is  with  me,  or  the  janitor — especially  after  dark." 

"Good  Lord! " 

"Listen!  I  am  not  really  frightened.  It  isn't  fear, 
Garry.  That  word  isn't  in  my  creed,  you  know.  But 
it  bewilders  me." 

"In  the  name  of  common  sense,"  he  demanded,  "what 
reason  has  anybody  to  annoy  you " 

Her  hand  tightened  on  his: 

"If  I  only  knew  who  these  people  are — whether  they 
are  agents  of  the  Count  d'Eblis  or  of  the — the  French 
Government!  But  I  can't  determine.  They  steal  let 
ters  directed  to  me;  they  steal  letters  which  I  write 
and  mail  with  my  own  hands.  I  wrote  to  you  yester- 

147 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


day,  because  I — I  felt  I  couldn't  stand  this  persecu 
tion — any — longer " 

Her  voice  became  unsteady ;  she  waited,  gripping  his 
hand,  until  self-control  returned.  When  she  was  mis 
tress  of  herself  again,  she  forced  a  smile  and  her  tense 
hand  relaxed. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "it  is  most  annoying  to  have 
my  little  love-letter  to  you  intercepted." 

But  his  features  remained  very  serious: 

"When  did  you  mail  that  letter  to  me?" 

"Yesterday  evening." 

"From  where?" 

"From  a  hotel." 

He  considered. 

"I  ought  to  have  had  it  this  morning,  Thessa.  But 
the  mails,  lately,  have  been  very  irregular.  There  have 
been  other  delays.  This  is  probably  an  example." 

"At  latest,"  she  said,  "you  should  have  my  letter 
this  evening." 

"Y-yes.     But  the  evening  is  young  yet." 

After  a  moment  she  drew  a  light  sigh  of  relief,  or 
perhaps  of  apprehension,  he  was  not  quite  sure  which. 

"But  about  this  other  matter — men  following  and 
annoying  you,"  he  began. 

"Not  now,  Garry.  I  can't  talk  about  it  now.  Wait 
until  we  are  sure  about  my  letter " 

"But,  Thessa " 

"Please!  If  you  don't  receive  it  before  I  leave,  I 
shall  come  to  you  again  and  ask  your  aid  and  ad 
vice " 

"Will  you  come  here?" 

"Yes.  Now  take  me  in.  ...  Because  I  am  not 
quite  certain  about  your  maid — and  perhaps  one  other 

person " 

His  expression  of  astonishment  checked  her  for  a 
148 


HER  NIGHT 


moment,  then  the  old  irresistible  laughter  rang  out 
sweetly  in  the  moonlight. 

"Oh,  Garry!  It  is  funny,  isnt'  it! — to  be  dogged 
and  hunted  day  and  night  by  a  pack  of  shadows?  If 
I  only  knew  who  casts  them !" 

She  took  his  arm  gaily,  with  that  little,  courageous 
lifting  of  the  head: 

"Aliens !  We  shall  dance  again  and  defy  the  devil ! 
And  you  may  send  your  servant  down  to  see  whether 
my  letter  has  arrived — not  that  maid  with  slanting 
eyes ! — I  have  no  confidence  in  her — but  your  marvel 
lous  major-domo,  Garry " 

Her  smile  was  bright  and  untroubled  as  she  stepped 
back  into  the  studio,  leaning  on  his  arm. 

"You  dear  boy,"  she  whispered,  with  the  irresponsi 
ble  undertone  of  laughter  ringing  in  her  voice,  "thank 
you  for  bothering  with  my  woes.  I'll  be  rid  of  them 
soon,  I  hope,  and  then — perhaps — I'll  lead  you  another 
dance  along  the  moonlit  way !" 

On  the  roof,  close  to  the  chimney,  the  one-eyed  man 
and  Soane  peered  down  into  the  studio  through  the 
smeared  ventilator. 

In  the  studio  Dulcie's  first  party  was  drawing  to  an 
early  but  jolly  end. 

She  had  danced  a  dozen  times  with  Barres,  and  her 
heart  was  full  of  sheerest  happiness — the  unreason 
ing  bliss  which  asks  no  questions,  is  endowed  with 
neither  reason  nor  vision — the  matchless  delight  which 
fills  the  candid,  unquestioning  heart  of  Youth. 

Nothing  had  marred  her  party  for  her,  not  even  the 
importunity  of  Esme  Trenor,  which  she  had  calmly 
disregarded  as  of  no  interest  to  her. 

True,  for  a  few  moments,  while  Barres  and  Thes- 
salie  were  on  the  balcony  outside,  Dulcie  had  become 

149 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


a  trifle  subdued.  But  the  wistful  glances  she  kept 
casting  toward  the  long  window  were  free  from  meaner 
taint;  neither  jealousy  nor  envy  had  ever  found  lodg 
ing  in  the  girl's  mind  or  heart.  There  was  no  room 
to  let  them  in  now. 

Also,  she  was  kept  busy  enough,  one  man  after  an 
other  claiming  her  for  a  dance.  And  she  adored  it 
— even  with  Trenor,  who  danced  extremely  well  when 
he  took  the  trouble.  And  he  was  taking  it  now  with 
Dulcie;  taking  a  different  tone  with  her,  too.  For  if 
it  were  true,  as  some  said,  that  Esme  Trenor  was  three- 
quarters  charlatan,  he  was  no  fool.  And  Dulcie  be 
gan  to  find  him  entertaining  to  the  point  of  a  smile  or 
two,  as  her  spontaneous  tribute  to  Esme's  efforts. 

That  languid  apostle  said  afterward  to  Mandel, 
where  they  were  lounging  over  the  piano : 

"Little  devil!  She's  got  a  mind  of  her  own,  and 
she  knows  it.  I've  had  to  make  efforts,  Corot! — ef 
forts,  if  you  please,  to  attract  her  mere  attention.  I'm 
exhausted! — never  before  had  to  make  any  efforts — 
never  in  my  life !" 

Mandel' s  heavy-lidded  eyes  of  a  big  bird  rested  on 
Dulcie,  where  she  was  seated.     Her  gaze  was  lifted  to 
Bar  res,  who  bent  over  her  in  jesting  conversation. 
,     Mandel,  watching  her,  said  to  Esme: 

"I'm  always  ready  to  train — that  sort  of  girl;  al 
ways  on  the  lookout  for  them.  One  discovers  a  speci 
men  once  or  twice  in  a  decade.  .  .  .  Two  or  three  in  a 
lifetime:  that's  all." 

"Train  them?"  repeated  Esme,  with  an  indolent 
smile.  "Break  them,  you  mean,  don't  you?" 

"Yes.  The  breaking,  however,  is  usually  mutual. 
However,  that  girl  could  go  far  under  my  direction." 

"Yes,  she  could  go  as  far  as  hell." 

"I  mean  artistically,"  remarked  Mandel,  undisturbed. 
150 


HER  NIGHT 


"As  what,  for  example?" 

"As  anything.  After  all,  I  have  flaire,  even  if  it 
failed  me  this  time.  But  now  I  see.  It's  there,  in  her 
— what  I'm  always  searching  for." 

"What  may  that  be,  dear  friend?" 

"What  Westmore  calls  'the  goods.'  " 

"And  just  what  are  they  in  her  case?"  inquired 
Esme,  persistent  as  a  stinging  gnat  around  a  pachy 
derm. 

"I  don't  know — a  voice,  maybe ;  maybe  the  dramatic 
instinct — genius  as  a  dancer — who  knows?  All  that  is 
necessary  is  to  discover  it — whatever  it  may  be — and 
then  direct  it." 

"Too  late,  O  philanthropic  Pasha!"  remarked  Esme 
with  a  slight  sneer.  "I'd  be  very  glad  to  paint  her, 
too,  and  become  good  friends  with  her — so  would  many 
an  honest  man,  now  that  she's  been  discovered — but 
our  friend  Barres,  yonder,  isn't  likely  to  encourage 
either  you  or  me.  So" — he  shrugged,  but  his  languid 
gaze  remained  on  Dulcie — "so  you  and  I  had  better 
kiss  all  hope  good-bye  and  toddle  home." 

Westmore  and  Thessalie  still  danced  together;  Mrs. 
Helmund  and  Damaris  were  trying  new  steps  in  new 
dances,  much  interested,  indulging  in  much  merriment. 
Barres  watched  them  casually,  as  he  conversed  with 
Dulcie,  who,  deep  in  an  armchair,  never  took  her  eyes 
from  his  smiling  face. 

"Now,  Sweetness,"  he  was  saying,  "it's  early  yet,  1 
know,  but  your  party  ought  to  end,  because  you  are 
coming  to  sit  for  me  in  the  morning,  and  you  and  I 
ought  to  get  plenty  of  sleep.  If  we  don't,  I  shall  have 
an  unsteady  hand,  and  you  a  pair  of  sleepy  eyes. 
Come  on,  ducky!"  He  glanced  across  at  the  clock: 

"It's  very  early  yet,  I  know,"  he  repeated,  "but  you 
151 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


and  I  have  had  rather  a  long  day  of  it.  And  it's  been 
a  very  happy  one,  hasn't  it,  Dulcie?" 

As  she  smiled,  the  youthful  soul  of  her  itself  seemed 
to  be  gazing  up  at  him  out  of  her  enraptured  eyes. 

"Fine !"  he  said,  with  deepest  satisfaction.  "Now, 
you'll  put  your  hand  on  my  arm  and  we'll  go  around 
and  say  good-night  to  everybody,  and  then  I'll  take 
you  down  stairs." 

So  she  rose  and  placed  her  hand  lightly  on  his  arm, 
and  together  they  made  her  adieux  to  everybody,  and 
everybody  was  cordially  demonstrative  in  thanking  her 
for  her  party. 

So  he  took  her  down  stairs  to  her  apartment,  off 
the  hall,  noticing  that  neither  Soane  nor  Miss  Kurtz 
was  on  duty  at  the  desk,  as  they  passed,  and  that  a 
pile  of  undistributed  mail  lay  on  the  desk. 

"That's  rotten,"  he  said  curtly.  "Will  you  have  to 
change  your  clothes,  sort  this  mail,  and  sit  here  until 
the  last  mail  is  delivered?" 

"I  don't  mind,"  she  said. 

"But  I  wanted  you  to  go  to  sleep.  Where  is  Miss 
Kurtz?" 

"It  is  her  evening  off." 

"Then  your  father  ought  to  be  here,"  he  said,  irri 
tated,  looking  around  the  big,  empty  hallway. 

But  Dulcie  only  smiled  and  held  out  her  slim  hand: 

"I  couldn't  sleep,  anyway.  I  had  really  much  rather 
sit  here  for  a  while  and  dream  it  all  over  again.  Good 
night.  .  .  .  Thank  you — I  can't  say  what  I  feel — but 
m-my  heart  is  very  faithful  to  you,  Mr.  Barres — will 
always  be — while  I  am  alive  .  .  .  because  you  are  my 
first  friend." 

He  stooped  impulsively  and  touched  her  hair  with 
his  lips: 

"You  dear  child,"  he  said,  "I  am  your  friend." 


HER  NIGHT 


Halfway  up  the  western  staircase  he  called  back: 

"Ring  me  up,  Dulcie,  when  the  last  mail  comes!" 

"I  will,"  she  nodded,  almost  blindly. 

Out  of  her  lovely,  abashed  eyes  she  watched  him 
mount  the  stairs,  her  cheeks  a  riot  of  surging  colour. 
It  was  some  few  minutes  after  he  was  gone  that  she 
recollected  herself,  turned,  and,  slowly  traversing  the 
east  corridor,  entered  her  bedroom. 

Standing  there  in  darkness,  vaguely  silvered  by  re-» 
fleeted  moonlight,  she  heard  through  her  door  ajar  the 
guests  of  the  evening  descending  the  western  staircase ; 
heard  their  gay  adieux  exchanged,  distinguished  Esme's 
impudent  drawl,  Westmore's  lively  accents,  Mandel's 
voice,  the  easy  laughter  of  Damaris,  the  smooth,  af 
fected  tones  of  Mrs.  Helmund. 

But  Dulcie  listened  in  vain  for  the  voice  which  had 
haunted  her  ears  since  she  had  left  the  studio — the 
lovely  voice  of  Thessalie  Dunois. 

If  this  radiant  young  creature  also  had  departed 
with  the  other  guests,  she  had  gone  away  in  silence. 
.  .  .  Had  she  departed?  Or  was  she  still  lingering 
upstairs  in  the  studio  for  a  little  chat  with  the  most 
wonderful  man  in  the  world?  ...  A  very,  very  beau 
tiful  girl.  .  .  .  And  the  most  wonderful  man  in  the 
world.  Why  should  they  not  linger  for  a  little  chat 
together  after  the  others  had  departed? 

Dulcie  sighed  lightly,  pensively,  as  one  whose  hap 
piness  lies  in  the  happiness  of  others.  To  be  a  witness 
seemed  enough  for  her. 

For  a  little  while  longer  she  remained  standing  there 
in  the  silvery  dusk,  quite  motionless,  thinking  of  Barres. 

The  Prophet  lay  asleep,  curled  up  on  her  bed;  her 
alarm  clock  ticked  noisily  in  the  darkness,  as  though 
to  mimic  the  loud,  fast  rhythm  of  her  heart. 
,     At  last,  and  as  in  a  dream,  she  groped  for  a  match, 

153 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


lighted  the  gas  jet,  and  began  to  disrobe.  Slowly, 
dreamily,  she  put  from  her  slender  body  the  magic 
garments  of  light — his  gift  to  her. 

But  under  these  magic  garments,  clothing  her  new 
born  soul,  remained  the  radiant  rainbow  robe  of  that 
new  dawn  into  which  this  man  had  led  her  spirit.  Did 
it  matter,  then,  what  dingy,  outworn  clothing  covered 
her,  outside? 

Clad  once  more  in  her  shabby,  familiar  clothes,  and 
bedroom  slippers,  Dulcie  opened  the  door  of  her  dim 
room,  and  crept  out  into  the  whitewashed  hall,  moving 
as  in  a  trance.  And  at  her  heels  stalked  the  Prophet, 
softly,  like  a  lithe  shape  that  glides  through  dreams. 

Awaiting  the  last  mail,  seated  behind  the  desk  on  the 
worn  leather  chair,  she  dropped  her  linked  fingers  into 
her  lap,  and  gazed  straight  into  an  invisible  world  peo 
pled  with  enchanting  phantoms.  And,  little  by  lit 
tle,  they  began  to  crowd  her  vision,  throng  all  about 
her,  laughing,  rosy  wraiths  floating,  drifting,  whirling 
in  an  endless  dance.  Everywhere  they  were  invading 
the  big,  silent  hall,  where  the  candle's  grotesque  shad 
ows  wavered  across  whitewashed  wall  and  ceiling. 
Drowsily,  now,  she  watched  them  play  and  sway  around 
her.  Her  head  drooped ;  she  opened  her  eyes. 

The  Prophet  sat  there,  staring  back  at  her  out  of 
depthless  orbs  of  jade,  in  which  all  the  wisdom  and 
mysteries  of  the  centuries  seemed  condensed  and  con 
centrated  into  a  pair  of  living  sparks. 


XII 

THE  LAST  MAIL 

THE  last  mail  had  not  yet  arrived  at  Dragon 
Court. 
Five  people  awaited  it — Dulcie  Soane,  behind 
the  desk  in  the  entrance  hall,  already  wandering  drow 
sily  with  Barres  along  the  fairy  borderland  of  sleep; 
Thessalie  Dunois  in  Barres'  studio,  her  rose-coloured 
evening  cloak  over  her  shoulders,  her  slippered  foot 
tapping  the  dance-scarred  parquet;  Barres  opposite, 
deep  in  his  favourite  arm-chair,  chatting  with  her; 
Soane  on  the  roof,  half  stupid  with  drink,  watching 
them  through  the  ventilator ;  and,  lurking  in  the  moon 
lit  court,  outside  the  office  window,  the  dimly  sinister 
figure  of  the  one-eyed  man.  He  wore  a  white  hand 
kerchief  over  his  face,  with  a  single  hole  cut  in  it. 
Through  this  hole  his  solitary  optic  was  now  fixed  upon 
the  back  of  Dulcie's  drowsy  head. 

As  for  the  Prophet,  perched  on  the  desk  top,  he  con 
tinued  to  gaze  upon  shapes  invisible  to  all  things  mor 
tal  save  only  such  as  he. 

The  postman's  lively  whistle  aroused  Dulcie.  The 
Prophet,  knowing  him,  observed  his  advent  with  indif 
ference. 

"Hello,  girlie,"  he  said; — he  was  a  fresh-faced  and 
flippant  young  man.  "Where's  Pop?"  he  added,  de 
positing  a  loose  sheaf  of  letters  on  the  desk  before  her 
and  sketching  in  a  few  jig  steps  with  his  feet. 

155 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"I  idon't  know,"  she  murmured,  patting  with  one 
slim  hand  her  pink  and  yawning  lips,  and  watching  him 
unlock  the  post-box  and  collect  the  outgoing  mail. 
He  lingered  a  moment  to  caress  the  Prophet,  who  en 
dured  it  without  gratitude. 

"You  better  go  to  bed  if  you  want  to  grow  up  to  be 
a  big,  sassy  girl  some  day,"  he  advised  Dulcie.  "And 
hurry  up  about  it,  too,  because  I'm  going  to  marry 
you  if  you  behave."  And,  with  a  last  affable  caress 
for  the  Prophet,  the  young  man  went  his  way,  singing 
to  himself,  and  slamming  the  iron  grille  smartly  be 
hind  him. 

Dulcie,  rising  from  her  chair,  sorted  the  mail,  sleep 
ily  tucking  each  letter  and  parcel  into  its  proper 
pigeon-hole.  There  was  a  thick  letter  for  Barres. 
This  she  held  in  her  left  hand,  remembering  his  re 
quest  that  she  call  him  up  when  the  last  mail  arrived. 

This  she  now  prepared  to  do — had  already  reseated 
herself,  her  right  hand  extended  toward  the  telephone, 
when  a  shadow  fell  across  the  desk,  and  the  Prophet 
turned,  snarled,  struck,  and  fled. 

At  the  same  instant  grimy  fingers  snatched  at  the 
letter  which  she  still  held  in  her  left  hand,  twisted  it 
almost  free  of  her  desperate  clutch,  tore  it  clean  in 
two  at  one  violent  jerk,  leaving  her  with  half  the  let 
ter  still  gripped  in  her  clenched  fist. 

She  had  not  uttered  a  sound  during  the  second's 
struggle.  But  instantly  an  ungovernable  rage  blazed 
up  in  her  at  the  outrage,  and  she  leaped  clean  over  the 
desk  and  sprang  at  the  throat  of  the  one-eyed  man. 

His  neck  was  bony  and  muscular ;  she  could  not  com 
pass  it  with  her  slender  hands,  but  she  struck  at  it 
furiously,  driving  a  sound  out  of  his  throat,  half  roar, 
half  cough. 

"Give  me  my  letter!"  she  breathed.  "I'll  kill  you 
156 


THE  LAST  MAIL 


if  you  don't!"  Her  furious  little  hands  caught  his 
clenched  fist,  where  the  torn  letter  protruded,  and  she 
tore  at  it  and  beat  upon  it,  her  teeth  set  and  her  grey 
Irish  eyes  afire. 

Twice  the  one-eyed  man  flung  her  to  her  knees  on 
the  pavement,  but  she  was  up  again  and  clinging  to 
him  before  he  could  tear  free  of  her. 

"My  letter!"  she  gasped.  "I  shall  kill  you,  I  tell 
you — unless  you  return  it !" 

His  solitary  yellow  eye  began  to  glare  and  glitter 
as  he  wrenched  and  dragged  at  her  wrists  and  arms 
about  him. 

"Schweinstiick !"  he  panted.  "Let  los,  mioche  de 
malheur!  Eh!  Los !— or  I  strike !  No?  Also!  At- 
trape ! — sale  gallopin ! " 

His  blow  knocked  her  reeling  across  the  hall. 
Against  the  whitewashed  wall  she  collapsed  to  her 
knees,  got  up  half  stunned,  the  clang  of  the  outer  grille 
ringing  in  her  very  brain. 

With  dazed  eyes  she  gazed  at  the  remnants  of  the 
torn  letter,  still  crushed  in  her  rigid  fingers.  Bright 
drops  of  blood  from  her  mouth  dripped  slowly  to  the 
tessellated  pavement. 

Reeling  still  from  the  shock  of  the  blow,  she  man 
aged  to  reach  the  outer  door,  and  stood  swaying  there, 
striving  to  pierce  with  confused  eyes  the  lamplit  dark 
ness  of  the  street.  There  was  no  sign  of  the  one-eyed 
man.  Then  she  turned  and  made  her  way  back  to 
the  desk,  supporting  herself  with  a  hand  along  the  wall. 

Waiting  a  few  moments  to  control  her  breathing  and 
her  shaky  limbs,  she  contrived  finally  to  detach  the 
receiver  and  call  Barres.  Over  the  wire  she  could  hear 
the  gramophone  playing  again  in  the  studio. 

"Please  may  I  come  up?"  she  whispered. 
157 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Has  the  last  mail  come?  Is  there  a  letter  for 
me?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  I'll  bring  you  w-what  there  is — if  you'll 
let  me?" 

"Thanks,  Sweetness !  Come  right  up !"  And  she 
heard  him  say:  "It's  probably  your  letter,  Thessa. 
Dulcie  is  bringing  it  up." 

Her  limbs  and  body  were  still  quivering,  and  she 
felt  very  weak  and  tearful  as  she  climbed  the  stair 
way  to  the  corridor  above. 

The  nearer  door  of  his  apartment  was  open. 
Through  it  the  music  of  the  gramophone  came  gaily; 
and  she  went  toward  it  and  entered  the  brilliantly  il 
luminated  studio. 

Soane,  who  still  lay  flat  on  the  roof  overhead,  peep 
ing  through  the  ventilator,  saw  her  enter,  all  di 
shevelled,  grasping  in  one  hand  the  fragments  of  a  let 
ter.  And  the  sight  instantly  sobered  him.  He  tucked 
his  shoes  under  one  arm,  got  to  his  stockinged  feet, 
made  nimbly  for  the  scuttle,  and  from  there,  descend 
ing  by  the  service  stair,  ran  through  the  courtyard  into 
the  empty  hall. 

"Be  gorry,"  he  muttered,  "thot  dommed  Dootchman 
has  done  it  now !"  And  he  pulled  on  his  shoes,  crammed 
his  hat  over  his  ears,  and  started  east,  on  a  run,  for 
Grogan's. 

Grogan's  was  still  the  name  of  the  Third  Avenue 
saloon,  though  Grogan  had  been  dead  some  years,  and 
one  Franz  Lehr  now  presided  within  that  palace  of 
cherrywood,  brass  and  pretzels. 

Into  the  family  entrance  fled  Soane,  down  a  dim 
hallway  past  several  doors,  from  behind  which  sounded 
voices  joining  in  guttural  song;  and  came  into  a  rear 
room. 

158 


THE  LAST  MAIL 


The  one-eyed  man  sat  there  at  a  small  table,  piec 
ing  together  fragments  of  a  letter. 

"Arrah,  then,"  cried  Soane,  "phwat  th*  devil  did 
ye  do,  Max?" 

The  man  barely  glanced  at  him. 

"Vy  iss  it,"  he  enquired  tranquilly,  "you  don'd  vatch 
Nihla  Quellen  by  dot  wentilator  some  more?" 

"I  axe  ye,"  shouted  Soane,  "what  t'hell  ye  done  to 
Dulcie!" 

"Vat  I  haff  done  already  yet?"  queried  the  one- 
eyed  man,  not  looking  up,  and  continuing  to  piece  to 
gether  the  torn  letter.  "Veil,  I  tell  you,  Soane;  dot 
kid  she  keep  dot  letter  in  her  handt,  und  I  haff  to  grab 
it.  Sacre  saligaud  de  malheur!  Dot  letter  she  tear 
herself  in  two.  Pas  de  chance !  Your  kid  she  iss  mad 
like  tigers !  Voici — all  zat  rests  me  de  la  sacre-nom-de 
sacreminton  de  lettre " 

"Ah,  shut  up,  y'r  Dootch  head-cheese ! — wid  y'r  gil- 
lipin'  gallopin'  gabble!"  cut  in  Soane  wrathfully. 
"D'ye  mind  phwat  ye  done?  It's  not  petty  larceny,  ye 
omadhoun ! — it's  highway  robbery  ye  done — bad  cess 
to  ye !" 

The  one-eyed  man  shrugged: 

"Pourtant,  I  must  haff  dot  letter "  he  observed, 

undisturbed  by  Soane's  anger ;  but  Soane  cut  him  short 
again  fiercely: 

"You  an'  y'r  dommed  letter!  Phwat  do  you  care 
if  I'm  fired  f'r  this  night's  wurruk?  Y'r  letter,  is  it? 
An'  what  about  highway  robbery,  me  bucko !  An'  me 
off  me  post!  How'll  I  be  explaining  that?  Ah,  ye 
sicken  me  entirely,  ye  Dootch  square-head!  Now, 
phwat'll  I  say  to  them?  Tell  me  that,  Max  Freund! 
Phwat'll  I  tell  th'  aygent  whin  he  comes  runnin'? 
Phwat'll  I  tell  th'  po-lice?  Arrah,  phwat't'hell  do  you 

159 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


care,  anyway?"  he  shouted.     "I've  a  mind  f'r  to  knock 
the  block  off  ye " 

"You  shall  say  to  dot  agent  you  haff  gone  out  to 
smell,"  remarked  Max  Freund  placidly. 

"Smell,  is  it?     Smell  what,  ye  dom " 

"You  smell  some  smoke.  You  haff  fear  of  fire.  You 
go  out  to  see.  Das  iss  so  simble,  ach!  Take  shame, 
you  Irish  Sinn  Fein !  You  behave  like  rabbits !"  He 
pointed  to  his  arrangement  of  the  torn  letter  on  the 
table:  "Here  iss  sufficient  already — regardez!  Look 
once!"  He  laid  one  long,  soiled  and  bony  finger  on 
the  fragments :  "Read  it  vat  iss  written !" 

"G'wan,  now!" 

"I  tell  you,  read!" 

Soane,  still  cursing  under  his  breath,  bent  over  the 
table,  reading  as  Freund's  soiled  finger  moved : 

"Fein  plots,"  he  read.  "German  agents  .  .  .  dis 
loyal  propa  .  .  .  explo  .  .  .  bomb  fac  .  .  .  shipping 
munitions  to  ...  arms  for  Ireland  can  be  ...  de 
struction  of  interned  German  li  .  .  .  disloyal  news 
papers  which  .  .  .  controlled  by  us  in  Pari  .  .  .  Ferez 
Bey  .  .  .  bankers  are  duped.  ...  I  need  your  advi 
.  .  .  hounded  day  and  ni  .  .  .  d'Eblis  or  Govern  .  .  . 
not  afraid  of  death  but  indignant  .  .  .  Sinn  Fei " 

Soane's  scowl  had  altered,  and  a  deeper  red  stained 
his  brow  and  neck. 

"Well,  by  God!"  he  muttered,  jerking  up  a  chair 
from  behind  him  and  seating  himself  at  the  table,  but 
never  taking  his  fascinated  eyes  off  the  torn  bits  of 
written  paper. 

Presently  Freund  got  up  and  went  out.  He  re 
turned  in  a  few  moments  with  a  large  sheet  of  wrap 
ping  paper  and  a  pot  of  mucilage.  On  this  paper,  with 
great  care,  he  arranged  the  pieces  of  the  torn  letter, 

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neatly  gumming  each  bit  and  leaving  a  space  between 
it  and  the  next  fragment. 

"To  fill  in  iss  the  job  of  Louis  Sendelbeck,"  re- 
marked  Freund,  pasting  away  industriously.  "Is  it 
not  time  we  learn  how  much  she  knows — this  Nihla 
Quellen?  Iss  she  sly  like  mice?  I  ask  it." 

Soane  scratched  his  curly  head 

"Be  gorry,"  he  said,  "av  that  purty  girrl  is  a  Frinch 
spy  she  don't  look  the  parrt,  Max." 

Freund  waved  one  unclean  hand: 

"Vas  iss  it  to  look  like  somedings?  Nodding!  Also, 
you  Sinn  Fein  Irish  talk  too  much.  Why  iss  it  in  Bel 
fast  you  march  mit  drums  und  music?  To  hold  our 
tongues  und  vatch  vat  iss  we  Germans  learn  already 
first !  Also !  Sendelbeck  shall  haff  his  letter." 

"An'  phwat  d'ye  mean  to  do  with  that  girrl,  Max?" 

"Vatch  her!  Vy  you  don'd  go  back  by  dot  wenti- 
lator  already?" 

"Me?  Faith,  I'm  done  f'r  th'  evenin',  an'  I  thank 
God  I  wasn't  pinched  on  the  leads !" 

"Vait  I  catch  dot  Nihla  somevares,"  muttered 
Freund,  regarding  his  handiwork. 

"Ye'll  do  no  dirty  thrick  to  her?  Th'  Sinn  Fein  wiU 
shtand  f'r  no  burkin',  mind  that !" 

"Ach,  wass !"  grunted  Freund ;  "iss  it  your  busi 
ness  vat  iss  done  to  somebody  by  Ferez?  If  you  Irish 
vant  your  rifles  und  machine  guns,  leaf  it  to  us  Ger 
mans  und  dond  speak  nonsense  aboud  nodding!"  He 
leaned  over  and  pushed  a  greasy  electric  button : 
"Now  ve  drink  a  glass  bier.  Und  after,  you  go  home 
und  vatch  dot  girl  some  more." 

"Av  Misther  Barres  an'  th'  yoong  lady  makes  a  hol 
ler,  they'll  fire  me  f'r  this,"  snarled  Soane. 

"Sei  ruhig,  mon  vieux!  Nihla  Quellen  keeps  like  a 
mouse  quiet!  Und  she  keeps  dot  yoong  man  quiet! 

161 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


You  see!  No,  no!  Not  for  Nihla  to  make  some  fool 
ishness  und  publicity.  French  agents  iss  vatching  for 
her  too — 1'affaire  du  Mot  d'Ordre.  She  iss  vat  you 
say,  'in  Dutch'!  Iss  she,  vielleicht,  a  German  spy? 
In  France  they  believe  it.  Iss  she  a  French  spy?  Ach! 
Possibly  some  day ;  not  yet !  And  it  iss  for  us  Germans 
to  know  always  vat  she  iss  about.  Dot  iss  my  affair, 
not  yours,  Soane." 

A  heavy  jowled  man  in  a  soiled  apron  brought  two 
big  mugs  of  beer  and  retired  on  felt-slippered  feet. 

"Hoch!"  grunted  Freund,  burying  his  nose  in  his 
frothing  mug. 

Soane,  wasting  no  words,  drank  thirstily.  After  a 
long  pull  he  shoved  aside  his  sloppy  stein,  rose,  cau 
tiously  unlatched  the  shutter  of  a  tiny  peep-hole  in  the 
wall,  and  applied  one  eye  to  it. 

"Bad  luck!"  he  muttered,  "there  do  be  wan  av  thim 
secret  service  lads  drinkin'  at  the  bar!  I'll  not  go 
home  yet,  Max." 

"Dot  big  vone?"  inquired  Freund,  mildly  interested. 

"That's  the  buck!  Him  wid  th'  phony  whiskers  an' 
th'  Dootch  getup !" 

"Veil,  vot  off  it?     Can  he  do  somedings?" 

"And  how  should  I  know  phwat  that  lad  can  do  to 
th'  likes  o'  me,  or  phwat  the  divil  brings  him  here  at 
all,  at  all!  Sure,  he's  been  around  these  three  nights 
running " 

Freund  laughed  his  contempt  for  all  things  Amer 
ican,  including  police  and  secret  service,  and  wiped  his 
chin  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"Look,  once,  Soane!  Do  these  Yankees  know  vat 
it  iss  a  police,  a  gendarme,  a  military  intelligence? 
Vat  they  call  secret  service,  wass  iss  it?  I  ask  it? 
Schweinerei!  Dummheit?  Fantoches!  Imbeciles!  Of 
the  Treasury  they  haff  a  secret  service;  of  the  Jus- 

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tice  Department  also  another;  and  another  of  the 
Army,  and  jet  another  of  the  Posts !  Vot  kind  of 
foolish  system  iss  it? — mitout  no  minister,  no  chef,  no 
centre,  no  head,  no  organisation — und  everybody  in 
terfering1  in  vot  efferybody  iss  doing  und  nobody  know 
ing  vot  nobody  is  doing — ach  wass  !  Je  m'en  moque — 
I  make  mock  m}'self  at  dot  secret  service  which  iss  too 
dam  dumm !"  He  yawned.  "Trop  bete,"  he  added  in 
distinctly. 

Soane,  reassured,  lowered  the  shutter,  came  back  to 
the  table,  and  finished  his  beer  with  loud  gulps. 

"Lave  us  go  up  to  the  lodge  till  he  goes  out,"  he 
suggested.  "Maybe  th'  boys  have  news  o'  thim  rifles." 

Freund  yawned  again,  nodded,  and  rose,  and  they 
went  out  to  an  unlighted  and  ill-smelling  back  stair 
way.  It  was  so  narrow  that  they  had  to  ascend  in 
single  file. 

Half  way  up  they  set  off  a  hidden  bell,  by  treading 
on  some  concealed  button  under  foot ;  and  a  man, 
dressed  only  in  undershirt  and  trousers,  appeared  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs,  silhouetted  against  a  bright  light 
burning  on  the  wall  behind  him. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  he  said,  recognising  them,  and  turned 
on  his  heel  carelessly,  pocketing  a  black-jack. 

They  followed  to  a  closed  door,  which  was  made 
out  of  iron  and  painted  like  quartered  oak.  In  the  wall 
on  their  right  a  small  shutter  slid  back  noiselessly,  then 
was  closed  without  a  sound;  and  the  iron  door  opened 
very  gently  in  their  faces. 

The  room  they  entered  was  stifling — all  windows  be 
ing  closed — in  spite  of  a  pair  of  electric  fans  whirling 
and  droning  on  shelves.  Some  perspiring  Germans  were 
playing  skat  over  in  a  corner.  One  or  two  other  men 
lounged  about  a  centre  table,  reading  Irish  and  Ger 
man  newspapers  published  in  New  York,  Chicago,  and 

163 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Milwaukee.  There  were  also  on  file  there  copies  of  the 
Evening  Mail,  the  Evening  Post,  a  Chicago  paper,  and 
a  pile  of  magazines,  including  numbers  of  Pearson's, 
The  Fatherland,  The  Masses,  and  similar  publications. 

Two  lithograph  portraits  hung  side  by  side  over 
the  fireplace — Robert  Emmet  and  Kaiser  Wilhelm  II. 
Otherwise,  the  art  gallery  included  photographs  of  Von 
Hindenburg,  Von  Bissing,  and  the  King  of  Greece. 

A  large  map,  on  which  the  battle-line  in  Europe  had 
been  pricked  out  in  red  pins,  hung  on  the  wall.  Also 
a  map  of  New  York  City,  on  a  very  large  scale ;  another 
map  of  New  York  State;  and  a  map  of  Ireland.  A 
dumb-waiter,  on  duty  and  astonishingly  noiseless,  slid 
into  sight,  carrying  half  a  dozen  steins  of  beer  and 
some  cheese  sandwiches,  just  as  Soane  and  Freund  en 
tered  the  room,  and  the  silent  iron  door  closed  behind 
them  of  its  own  accord  and  without  any  audible  click. 

The  man  who  had  met  them  on  the  stairs,  in  under 
shirt  and  trousers,  went  over  to  the  dumb-waiter,  scrib 
bled  something  on  a  slate  which  hung  inside  the  shelf, 
set  the  beer  and  sandwiches  beside  the  skat  players, 
and  returned  to  seat  himself  at  the  table  to  which 
Freund  and  Soane  had  pulled  up  cane-bottomed  chairs. 

"Well,"  he  said,  in  rather  a  pleasant  voice,  "did  you 
get  that  letter,  Max?" 

Freund  nodded  and  leisurely  sketched  in  the  episode 
at  Dragon  Court. 

The  man,  whose  name  was  Franz  Lehr,  and  who  had 
been  born  in  New  York  of  German  parents,  listened 
with  lively  interest  to  the  narrative.  But  he  whistled 
softly  when  it  ended: 

"You  took  a  few  chances,  Max,"  he  remarked.  "It's 
all  right,  of  course,  because  you  got  away  with  it, 
but "  He  whistled  again,  thoughtfully. 

"Sendelbeck  must  haff  his  letter.  Yess?  Also!" 
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"Certainly.  I  guess  that  was  the  only  way — if  she 
was  really  going  to  take  it  up  to  young  Barres.  And 
I  guess  you're  right  when  you  conclude  that  Nihla 
won't  make  any  noise  about  it  and  won't  let  her  friend, 
Barres,  either." 

"Sure,  I'm  right,",  grunted  Freund.  "We  got  the 
goots  on  her  now.  You  bet  she's  scared.  You  tell 
Ferez — yess  ?" 

"Don't  worry ;  he'll  hear  it  all.  You  got  that  let 
ter  on  you?" 

Freund  nodded. 

"Hand  it  to  Hochstein" — he  half  turned  on  his  rick 
ety  chair  and  addressed  a  squat,  bushy-haired  man 
with  very  black  eyebrows  and  large,  angry  blue  eyes — 
"Louis,  Max  got  that  letter  you  saw  Nihla  writing  in 

the  Hotel  Astor.     Here  it  is "  taking  the  pasted 

fragments  from  Freund  and  passing  them  over  to 
Hochstein.  "Give  it  to  Sendelbeck,  along  with  the 
blotter  you  swiped  after  she  left  the  writing  room. 
Dave  Sendelbeck  ought  to  fix  it  up  all  right  for  Ferez 
Bey." 

Hochstein  nodded,  shoved  the  folded  brown  paper 
into  his  pocket,  and  resumed  his  cards. 

"Is  thim  rifles "  began  Soane;  but  Lehr  laid  a 

hand  on  his  shoulder: 

"Now,  listen!  They're  on  the  way  to  Ireland  now. 
I  told  you  that.  When  I  hear  they're  landed  I'U  let 
you  know.  You  Sinn  Feiners  don't  understand  how  to 
wait.  If  things  don't  happen  the  way  you  want  and 
when  you  want,  you  all  go  up  in  the  air!" 

"An'  how  manny  hundred  years  would  ye  have  us 
wait  f 'r  to  free  th'  ould  sod !"  retorted  Soane. 

"You'll  not  free  it  with  your  mouth,"  retorted  Lehr. 
"No,  nor  by  drilling  with  banners  and  arms  in  Cork 
and  Belfast,  and  parading  all  over  the  place !" 

165 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Is— that— so!" 

"You  bet  it's  so !  The  way  to  make  England  sick  is 
to  stick  her  in  the  back,  not  make  faces  at  her  across  the 
Irish  Channel.  If  your  friends  in  the  Clan-na-Gael, 
and  your  poets  and  professors  who  call  themselves 
Sinn  Feiners,  will  quit  their  childish  circus  playing  and 
trust  us,  we'll  show  you  how  to  make  the  Lion  yowl." 

"Ah,  bombs  an'  fires  an'  shtrikes  is  all  right,  too. 
An'  proppygandy  is  fine  as  far  as  it  goes.  But  the 
Clan-na-Gael  is  all  afire  f'r  to  start  the  shindy  in  Ire 
land » 

"You  start  it,"  interrupted  Lehr,  "before  you'r'e 
really  ready,  and  you'll  see  where  it  lands  the  Clan- 
na-Gael  and  the  Sinn  Fein!  I  tell  you  to  leave  it  to 
Berlin!" 

"An'  I  tell  ye  lave  it  to  the  Clan-na-Gael !"  retorted 
Soane,  excitedly.  "Musha " 

"For  why  you  yell?"  yawned  Freund,  displaying  a 
very  yellow  fang.  "Dot  big  secret  service  slob,  he  iss 
in  the  bar  hinunter.  Perhaps  he  hear  you  if  like  a 
pig  you  push  forth  cries." 

Lehr  raised  his  eyebrows ;  then,  carelessly : 

"He's  only  a  State  agent.  Johnny  Klein  is  keeping 
an  eye  on  him.  What  does  that  big  piece  of  cheese  ex 
pect  to  get  by  hanging  out  in  my  bar?" 

Freund  yawned  again,  appallingly;  Soane  said: 

"I  wonder  is  that  purty  Frinch  girrl  agin  us  Irish?" 

"What  does  she  care  about  the  Irish?"  replied  Lehr. 
"Her  danger  to  us  lies  in  the  fact  that  she  may  blab 
about  Ferez  to  some  Frenchman,  and  that  he  may  be 
lieve  her  in  spite  of  all  the  proof  they  have  in  Paris 
against  her.  Max,"  he  added,  turning  to  Freund,  "it's 
funny  that  Ferez  doesn't  do  something  to  her." 

"I  haif  no  orders." 

"Maybe  you'll  get  'em  when  Ferez  reads  that  letter. 
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THE  LAST  MAIL 


He's  certainly  not  going  to  let  that  girl  go  about  blab 
bing  and  writing  letters " 

Soane  struck  the  table  with  doubled  fist: 

"Ye'll  do  no  vi'lence  to  anny  wan !"  he  cut  in.  "The 
Sinn  Fein  will  shtand  for  no  dirrty  wurruk  in  Amer 
ica  !  Av  you  set  fires  an'  blow  up  plants,  an'  kidnap 
ladies,  an'  do  murther,  g'wan,  ye  Dootch  scuts ! — it's 
your  business,  God  help  us ! — not  ours. 

"All  we  axe  of  ye  is  machine-goons,  an'  rifles,  an' 
ships  to  land  them;  an'  av  ye  don't  like  it,  phway  th' 
divil  d'ye  come  botherin'  th'  likes  of  us  Irish  wid  y'r 
proppygandy !  Sorra  the  day,"  he  added,  "I  tuk  up 
wid  anny  Dootchman  at  all  at  all " 

Lehr  and  Freund  exchanged  expressionless  glances. 
The  former  dropped  a  propitiating  hand  on  Soane's 
shoulder. 

"Can  it,"  he  said  good-humouredly.  "We're  trying 
to  help  you  Irish  to  what  you  want.  You  want  Irish 
independence,  don't  you?  All  right.  We're  going  to 
help  you  get  it " 

A  bell  rang;  Lehr  sprang  to  his  feet  and  hastened 
out  through  the  iron  door,  drawing  his  black-jack  from 
his  hip  pocket  as  he  went. 

He  returned  in  a  few  moments,  followed  by  a  very 
good-looking  but  pallid  man  in  rather  careless  evening 
dress,  who  had  the  dark  eyes  of  a  dreamer  and  the 
delicate  features  of  a  youthful  acolyte. 

He  saluted  the  company  with  a  peculiarly  graceful 
gesture,  which  recognition  even  the  gross  creatures  at 
the  skat  table  returned  with  visible  respect. 

Soane,  always  deeply  impressed  by  the  presence  of 
Murtagh  Skeel,  offered  his  chair  and  drew  another  one 
to  the  table. 

Skeel  accepted  with  a  gently  preoccupied  smile,  and 
seated  himself  gracefully.  All  that  is  chivalrous,  ro- 

167 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


mantle,  courteous,  and  brave  in  an  Irishman  seemed  to 
be  visibly  embodied  in  this  pale  man. 

"I  have  just  come,"  he  said,  "from  a  dinner  at  Sher 
ry's.  A  common  hatred  of  England  brought  together 
the  dozen  odd  men  with  whom  I  have  been  in  confer 
ence.  Ferez  Bey  was  there,  the  military  attaches  of 
the  German,  Austrian,  and  Turkish  embassies,  one  or 
two  bankers,  officials  of  certain  steamship  lines,  and  a 
United  States  senator." 

He  sipped  a  glass  of  plain  water  which  Lehr  had 
brought  him,  thanked  him,  then  turning  from  Soane 
to  Lehr: 

"To  get  arms  and  munitions  into  Ireland  in  sub 
stantial  quantities  requires  something  besides  the  U- 
boats  which  Germany  seems  willing  to  offer. 

"That  was  fully  discussed  to-night.  Not  that  I 
have  any  doubt  at  all  that  Sir  Roger  will  do  his  part 
skilfully  and  fearlessly " 

"He  will  that!"  exclaimed  Soane,  "God  bless  him!" 

"Amen,  Soane,"  said  Murtagh  Skeel,  with  a  wistful 
and  involuntary  upward  glance  from  his  dark  eyes. 
Then  he  laid  his  hand  of  an  aristocrat  on  Soane's 
shoulder.  "What  I  came  here  to  tell  you  is  this:  I 
want  a  ship's  crew." 

"Sorr?" 

"I  want  a  crew  ready  to  mutiny  at  a  signal  from  me 
and  take  over  their  own  ship  on  the  high  seas." 

"Their  own  ship,  sorr?" 

"Their  own  ship.  That  is  what  has  been  decided. 
The  ship  to  be  selected  will  be  a  fast  steamer  loaded 
with  arms  and  munitions  for  the  British  Government. 
The  Sinn  Fein  and  the  Clan-na-Gael,  between  them,  are 
to  assemble  the  crew.  I  shall  be  one  of  that  crew. 
Through  powerful  friends,  enemies  to  England,  it  will 

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THE  LAST  MAIL 


be  made  possible  to  sign  such  a  crew  and  put  it  aboard 
the  steamer  to  be  seized. 

"Her  officers  will,  of  course,  be  British.  And  I 
am  afraid  there  may  be  a  gun  crew  aboard.  But  that 
is  nothing.  We  shall  take  her  over  when  the  time 
comes — probably  off  the  Irish  coast  at  night.  Now, 
Soane,  and  you,  Lehr,  I  want  you  to  help  recruit  a 
picked  crew,  all  Irish,  all  Sinn  Feiners  or  members  of 
the  Clan-na-Gael. 

"You  know  the  sort.  Absolutely  reliable,  fearless, 
and  skilled  men  devoted  soul  and  body  to  the  cause  for 
which  we  all  would  so  cheerfully  die.  .  .  .  Will  you 
do  it?" 

There  was  a  silence.  Soane  moistened  his  lips  re 
flectively.  Lehr,  intelligent,  profoundly  interested, 
kept  his  keen,  pleasant  eyes  on  Murtagh  Skeel.  Only 
the  droning  electric  fans,  the  rattle  of  a  newspaper,  the 
slap  of  greasy  cards  at  the  skat  table,  the  slobber 
ing  gulp  of  some  Teuton,  guzzling  beer,  interrupted  the 
sweltering  quiet  of  the  room. 

"Misther  Murtagh,  sorr,"  said  Soane  with  a  light, 
careless  laugh,  "I've  wan  recruit  f'r  to  bring  ye." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Sure,  it's  meself,  sorr — av  ye'll  sign  the  likes  o' 
me." 

"Thanks;  of  course,"  said  Skeel,  with  one  of  his 
rare  smiles,  and  taking  Soane's  hand  in  comradeship. 

"I'll  go,"  said  Lehr,  coolty ;  "but  my  name  won't  do. 
Call  me  Grogan,  if  you  like,  and  I'll  sign  with  you, 
Mr.  Skeel." 

Skeel  pressed  the  offered  hand: 

"A  splendid  beginning,"  he  said.  "I  wanted  you 
both.  Now,  see  what  you  can  do  in  the  Sinn  Fein 
and  Clan-na-Gael  for  a  crew  which,  please  God,  we 
shall  require  very  soon!"  . 


XIII 

A  MIDNIGHT   TETE-A-TETE 

WHEN  Dulcie  had  entered  the  studio  that  eve 
ning,  her  white  face  smeared  with  blood  and 
a  torn  letter  clutched  in  her  hand,  the  gramo 
phone  was  playing  a  lively  two-step,  and  Barres  and 
Thessalie  Dunois  were  dancing  there  in  the  big,  bril 
liantly  lighted  studio,  all  by  themselves. 

Thessalie  caught  sight  of  Dulcie  over  Barres's  shoul 
der,  hastily  slipped  out  of  his  arms,  and  hurried  across 
the  polished  floor. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked  breathlessly,  a  fear 
ful  intuition  already  enlightening  her  as  her  startled 
glance  travelled  from  the  blood  on  Dulcie's  face  to  the 
torn  fragments  of  paper  in  her  rigidly  doubled  fin 
gers. 

Barres,  coming  up  at  the  same  moment,  slipped  a 
firm  arm  around  Dulcie's  shoulders. 

"Are  you  badly  hurt,  dear?  What  has  happened?" 
he  asked  very  quietly. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  mute,  her  bruised  mouth  quiv 
ering,  and  held  out  the  remains  of  the  letter.  And 
Thessalie  Dunois  caught  her  breath  sharply  as  her  eyes 
fell  on  the  bits  of  paper  covered  with  her  own  hand 
writing. 

"There  was  a  man  hiding  in  the  court,"  said  Dulcie. 
"He  wore  a  white  cloth  over  his  face  and  he  came  up 
behind  me  and  tried  to  snatch  your  letter  out  of  my 
hand ;  but  I  held  fast  and  he  only  tore  it  in  two." 

170 


A  MIDNIGHT  TETE-A-TETE 

Barres  stared  at  the  sheaf  of  torn  paper,  lying  crum 
pled  up  in  his  open  hand,  then  his  amazed  gaze  rested 
on  Thessalie : 

"Is  this  the  letter  you  wrote  to  me?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes.  May  I  have  the  remains  of  my  letter ?"  she 
asked  calmly. 

He  handed  over  the  bits  of  paper  without  a  word, 
and  she  opened  her  gold-mesh  bag  and  dropped  them  in. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  Barres  said: 

"Did  he  strike  you,  Dulcie?" 

"Yes,  when  he  thought  he  couldn't  get  away  from 
me." 

"You  hung  on  to  him?" 

"I  tried  to." 

Thessalie  stepped  closer,  impulsively,  and  framed 
Dulcie's  pallid,  blood-smeared  face  in  both  of  her  cool, 
white  hands. 

"He  has  cut  your  lower  lip  inside,"  she  said.  And, 
to  Barres:  "Could  you  get  something  to  bathe  it?" 

Barres  went  away  to  his  own  room.  When  he  re 
turned  with  a  finger-bowl  full  of  warm  water,  some 
powdered  boric  acid,  cotton,  and  a  soft  towel,  Dulcie 
was  lying  deep  in  an  arm-chair,  her  lids  closed;  and 
Thessalie  sat  beside  her  on  one  of  the  padded  arms, 
smoothing  the  ruddy,  curly  hair  from  her  forehead. 

She  opened  her  eyes  when  Barres  appeared,  giving 
him  a  clear  but  inscrutable  look.  Thessalie  gently 
washed  the  traces  of  battle  from  her  face,  then  rinsed 
her  lacerated  mouth  very  tenderly. 

"It  is  just  a  little  cut,"  she  said.  "Your  lip  is  a 
trifle  swelled." 

"It  is  nothing,"  murmured  Dulcie. 

"Do  you  feel  all  right?"  inquired  Barres  anxiously. 

"I  feel  sleepy."  She  sat  erect,  always  with  her  grey 
eyes  on  Barres.  "I  think  I  will  go  to  bed."  She  stood 

171 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


up,  conscious,  now,  of  her  shabby  clothes  and  slippers ; 
and  there  was  a  painful  flush  on  her  face  as  she  thanked 
Thessalie  and  bade  her  a  confused  good-night. 

But  Thessalie  took  the  girl's  hand  and  retained  it. 

"Please  don't  say  anything  about  what  happened," 
she  said.  "May  I  ask  it  of  you  as  a  very  great  fa 
vour?" 

Dulcie  turned  her  eyes  on  Barres  in  silent  appeal  for 
guidance. 

"Do  you  mind  not  saying  anything  about  this  af 
fair,"  he  asked,  "as  long  as  Miss  Dunois  wishes  it?" 

"Should  I  not  tell  my  father?" 

"Not  even  to  him,"  replied  Thessalie  gently.  "Be 
cause  it  won't  ever  happen  again.  I  am  very  certain 
of  that.  Will  you  trust  my  word?" 

Again  Dulcie  looked  at  Barres,  who  nodded. 

"I  promise  never  to  speak  of  it,"  she  said  in  a  low, 
serious  voice. 

Barres  took  her  down  stairs.  At  the  desk  she 
pointed  out,  at  his  request,  the  scene  of  recent  action. 
Little  by  little  he  discovered,  by  questioning  her,  what 
a  dogged  battle  she  had  fought  there  alone  in  the  white 
washed  corridor. 

"Why  didn't  you  call  for  help?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  ...  I  didn't  think  of  it.  And  when 
he  got  away  I  was  dizzy  from  the  blow." 

At  her  bedroom  door  he  took  both  her  hands  in  his. 
The  gas-jet  was  still  burning  in  her  room.  On  the 
bed  lay  her  pretty  evening  dress. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  she  remarked  naively,  "that  I  had  on 
tny  old  clothes." 

He  smiled,  drew  her  to  him,  and  lightly  smoothed  the 
thick,  bright  hair  from  her  brow. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "I  am  becoming  very  fond 
of  you,  Dulcie.  You're  such  a  splendid  girl  in  every 

172 


A  MIDNIGHT  TETE-A-TETE 

way.  .  .  .  We'll  always  remain  firm  friends,  won't 
we?" 

"Yes." 

"And  in  perplexity  and  trouble  I  want  you  to  feel 
that  you  can  always  come  to  me.  Because — you  do 
like  me,  don't  you,  Dulcie?" 

For  a  moment  or  two  she  sustained  his  smiling, 
questioning  gaze,  then  laid  her  cheek  lightly  against 
his  hands,  which  still  held  both  of  hers  imprisoned. 
And  for  one  exquisite  instant  of  spiritual  surrender 
her  grey  eyes  closed.  Then  she  straightened  herself 
up;  he  released  her  hands;  she  turned  slowly  and  en 
tered  her  room,  closing  the  door  very  gently  behind 
her. 

In  the  studio  above,  Thessalie,  still  wearing  her  rose- 
coloured  cloak,  sat  awaiting  him  by  the  window. 

He  crossed  the  studio,  dropped  onto  the  lounge  be 
side  her,  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  Neither  spoke  for 
a  few  moments.  Then  he  said: 

"Thessa,  don't  you  think  you  had  better  tell  me 
something  about  this  ugly  business  which  seems  to  in 
volve  you?" 

"I  can't,  Garry." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  shall  not  take  the  risk  of  dragging  you 
in." 

"Who  are  these  people  who  seem  to  be  hounding 
you?" 

"I  can't  tell  you." 

"You  trust  me,  don't  you?" 

She  nodded,  her  face  partly  averted : 

"It  isn't  that.  And  I  had  meant  to  tell  you  some 
thing  concerning  this  matter — tell  you  just  enough  so 
that  I  might  ask  your  advice.  In  fact,  that  is  what 

173 


THE  MOONLIT  WAI 


I  wrote  you  in  that  letter — being  rather  scared  and 
desperate.  .  .  .  But  half  my  letter  to  you  has  been 
stolen.  The  people  who  stole  it  are  clever  enough  to 
piece  it  out  and  fill  in  what  is  missing " 

She  turned  impulsively  and  took  his  hands  between 
her  own.  Her  face  had  grown  quite  white. 

"How  much  harm  have  I  done  to  you,  Garry?  Have 
I  already  involved  you  by  writing  as  much  as  I  did 
write?  I  have  been  wondering.  ...  I  couldn't  bear 
to  bring  anything  like  that  into  your  life " 

"Anything  like  what?"  he  asked  bluntly.  "Why 
don't  you  tell  me,  Thessa?" 

"No.  It's  too  complicated — too  terrible.  There  are 
elements  in  it  that  would  shock  and  disgust  you.  .  .  . 
And  perhaps  you  would  not  believe  me " 

"Nonsense !" 

"The  Government  of  a  great  European  Power  does 
not  believe  me  to  be  honest!''  she  said  very  quietly. 
"Why  should  you?" 

"Because  I  know  you." 

She  smiled  faintly: 

"You're  such  a  dear,"  she  murmured.  "But  you 
talk  like  a  boy.  What  do  you  really  know  about  me? 
We  have  met  just  three  times  in  our  entire  lives.  Do 
any  of  those  encounters  really  enlighten  you?  If  you 
were  a  business  man  in  a  responsible  position,  could  you 
honestly  vouch  for  me?" 

"Don't  you  credit  me  with  common  sense?"  he  in 
sisted  warmly. 

She  laughed: 

"No,  Garry,  dear,  not  with  very  much.  Even  I 
have  more  than  you,  and  that  is  saying  very  little. 
We  are  inclined  to  be  irresponsible,  you  and  I — in 
clined  to  take  the  world  lightly,  inclined  to  laugh,  in 
clined  to  tread  the  moonlit  way!  No,  Garry,  neither 

174 


A  MIDNIGHT  TETE-A-TETE 

you  nor  I  possess  very  much  of  that  worldly  caution 
born  of  hardened  wisdom  and  sharpened  wits." 

She  smiled  almost  tenderly  at  him  and  pressed  his 
hands  between  her  own. 

"If  I  had  been  worldly  wise,"  she  said,  "I  should 
never  have  danced  my  way  to  America  through  sum 
mer  moonlight  with  you.  If  I  had  been  wiser  still,  I 
should  not  now  be  an  exile,  my  political  guilt  estab 
lished,  myself  marked  for  destruction  by  a  great  Euro 
pean  Power  the  instant  I  dare  set  foot  on  its  soil." 

"I  supposed  your  trouble  to  be  political,"  he  nod 
ded. 

"Yes,  it  is."  She  sighed,  looked  at  him  with  a  weary 
little  smile.  "But,  Garry,  I  am  not  guilty  of  being 
what  that  nation  believes  me  to  be." 

"I  am  very  sure  of  it,"  he  said  gravely. 

"Yes,  you  would  be.  You'd  believe  in  me  anyway, 
even  with  the  terrible  evidence  against  me.  ...  I  don't 
suppose  you'd  think  me  guilty  if  I  tell  you  that  I  am 
not — in  spite  of  what  they  might  say  about  me — might 
prove,  apparently." 

She  withdrew  her  hands,  clasped  them,  her  gaze  lost 
in  retrospection  for  a  few  moments.  Then,  coming  to 
herself  with  a  gesture  of  infinite  weariness : 

"There  is  no  use,  Garry.  I  should  never  be  be 
lieved.  There  are  those  who,  base  enough  to  entrap 
me,  now  are  preparing  to  destroy  me  because  they  are 
cowardly  enough  to  be  afraid  of  me  while  I  am  alive. 
Yes,  trapped,  exiled,  utterly  discredited  as  I  am  to 
day,  they  are  still  afraid  of  me." 

"Who  are  you,  Thessa?"  he  asked,  deeply  disturbed. 

"I  am  what  you  first  saw  me — a  dancer,  Garry,  and 
nothing  worse." 

"It  seems  strange  that  a  European  Government 
should  desire  your  destruction,"  he  said. 

175 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"If  I  really  were  what  this  Government  believes  me 
to  be,  it  would  not  seem  strange  to  you." 

She  sat  thinking,  worrying  her  under  lip  with  deli 
cate  white  teeth;  then: 

"Garry,  do  you  believe  that  your  country  is  going 
to  be  drawn  into  this  war?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  he  said  bitterly.  "The 
Lusitania  ought  to  have  meant  war  between  us  and 
Germany.  Every  brutal  Teutonic  disregard  of  de 
cency  since  then  ought  to  have  meant  war — every  un 
armed  ship  sunk  by  their  U-boats,  every  outrage  in 
America  perpetrated  by  their  spies  and  agents  ought 
to  have  meant  war.  I  don't  know  how  much  more  this 
Administration  will  force  us  to  endure — what  further 
flagrant  insult  Germany  means  to  offer.  They've  an 
swered  the  President's  last  note  by  canning  Von  Tir- 
pitz  and  promising,  conditionally,  to  sink  no  more  un 
armed  ships  without  warning.  But  they  all  are  liars, 
the  Huns.  So  that's  the  way  matters  stand,  Thessa, 
and  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  of  what  is  going  to  hap 
pen  to  my  humiliated  country." 

"Why  does  not  your  country  prepare  ?"  she  asked. 

"God  knows  why.  Washington  doesn't  believe  in  it, 
I  suppose." 

"You  should  build  ships,"  she  said.  "You  should 
prepare  plans  for  calling  out  your  young  men." 

He  nodded  indifferently: 

"There  was  a  preparedness  parade.  I  marched  in 
it.  But  it  only  irritated  Washington.  Now,  finally, 
the  latest  Mexican  insult  is  penetrating  official  stupid 
ity,  and  we  are  mobilising  our  State  Guardsmen  for 
service  on  the  border.  And  that's  about  all  we  are 
doing.  We  are  making  neither  guns  nor  rifles ;  we 
are  building  no  ships ;  the  increase  in  our  regular  army 
is  of  little  account ;  some  of  the  most  vital  of  the  great 

176 


A  MIDNIGHT  TETE-A-TETE 

national  departments  are  presided  over  by  rogues, 
clowns,  and  fools — pacifists  all! — stupid,  dull,  gro 
tesque  and  impotent.  And  you  ask  me  what  my  coun 
try  is  going  to  do.  And  I  tell  you  that  I  don't  know. 
For  real  Americans,  Thessa,  these  last  two  years  have 
been  years  of  shame.  For  we  should  have  armed  and 
mobilised  when  the  first  rifle-shot  cracked  across  the 
Belgian  frontier  at  Longwy ;  and  we  should  have  de 
clared  war  when  the  first  Hun  set  his  filthy  hoof  on 
Belgian  soil. 

"In  our  hearts  we  real  Americans  know  it.  But  we 
had  no  leader — nobody  of  faith,  conviction,  vision,  ac 
tion,  to  do  what  was  the  only  thing  to  do.  No ;  we  had 
only  talkers  to  face  the  supreme  crisis  of  the  world — 
only  the  shallow  noise  of  words  was  heard  in  answer 
to  God's  own  summons  warning  all  mankind  that  hell's 
deluge  was  at  hand." 

The  intense  bitterness  of  what  he  said  had  made  her 
very  grave.  She  listened  silently,  intent  on  his  every 
expression.  And  when .  he  ended  with  a  gesture  of 
hopelessness  and  disgust,  she  sat  gazing  at  him  out 
of  her  lovely  dark  eyes,  deep  in  reflection. 

"Garry,"  she  said  at  length,  "do  you  know  anything 
about  the  European  systems  of  intelligence?" 

"No — only  what  I  read  in  novels." 

"Do  you  know  that  America,  to-day,  is  fairly  crawl 
ing  with  German  spies?" 

"I  suppose  there  are  some  here." 

"There  are  a  hundred  thousand  paid  German  spies 
within  an  hour's  journey  of  this  city." 

He  looked  up  incredulously. 

"Let  me  tell  you,"  she  said,  "how  it  is  arranged 
here.  The  German  Ambassador  is  the  master  spy  in 
America.  Under  his  immediate  supervision  are  the  so- 
called  diplomatic  agents — the  personnel  of  the  embassy 

177 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


and  members  of  the  consular  service.  These  people  do 
not  class  themselves  as  agents  or  as  spies ;  they  are 
the  directors  of  spies  and  agents. 

"Agents  gather  information  from  spies  who  perform 
the  direct  work  of  investigating.  Spies  usually  work 
alone  and  report,  through  local  agents,  to  consular 
or  diplomatic  agents.  And  these,  in  turn,  report  to  the 
Ambassador,  who  reports  to  Berlin. 

"It  is  all  directed  from  Berlin.  The  personal  source 
of  all  German  espionage  is  the  Kaiser.  He  is  the  su 
preme  master  spy." 

"Where  have  yj)u  learned  these  things,  Thessa?"  he 
asked  in  a  troubled  voice. 

"I  have  learned,  Garry." 

"Are  you — a  spy?" 

"No." 

"Have  you  been?" 

"No,  Garry." 

"Then  how " 

"Don't  ask  me;  just  listen.  There  are  men  here  in 
your  city  who  are  here  for  no  good  purpose.  I  do 
not  mean  to  say  that  merely  because  they  seek  also  to 
injure  me — destroy  me,  perhaps, — God  knows  what 
they  wish  to  do  to  me! — but  I  say  it  because  I  be 
lieve  that  your  country  will  declare  war  on  Germany 
some  day  very  soon.  And  that  you  ought  to  watch 
these  spies  who  move  everywhere  among  you ! 

"Germany  also  believes  that  war  is  near.  And  this 
is  why  she  strives  to  embroil  your  country  with  Japan 
and  Mexico.  That  is  why  she  discredits  you  with  Hol 
land,  with  Sweden.  It  is  why  she  instructs  her  spies 
here  to  set  fires  in  factories  and  on  ships,  blow  up 
powder  mills  and  great  industrial  plants  which  are 
manufacturing  munitions  for  the  Allies  of  the  Triple 
Entente. 

178 


A  MIDNIGHT  TETE-A-TETE 

"America  may  doubt  that  there  is  to  be  war  between 
her  and  Germany,  but  Germany  does  not  doubt  it. 

"Let  me  tell  you  what  else  Germany  is  doing.  She 
is  spreading  insidious  propaganda  through  a  million 
disloyal  Germans  and  pacifist  Americans,  striving  to 
poison  the  minds  of  your  people  against  England.  She 
secretly  buys,  owns,  controls  newspapers  which  are 
used  as  vehicles  for  that  propaganda. 

"She  is  debauching  the  Irish  here  who  are  discon 
tented  with  England's  rule;  she  spends  vast  sums  of 
money  in  teaching  treachery  in  your  schools,  in  arous 
ing  suspicion  among  farmers,  in  subsidising  mercantile 
firms. 

"Garry,  I  tell  you  that  a  Hun  is  always  a  Hun;  a 
Boche  is  always  a  Boche,  call  him  what  else  you  will. 

"The  Germans  are  the  monkeys  of  the  world;  they 
have  imitated  the  human  race.  But,  Garry,  they  are 
still  what  they  always  have  been  at  heart,  barbarians 
who  have  no  business  in  Europe. 

"In  their  hearts — and  for  all  their  priests  and  clergy 
men  and  cathedrals  and  churches — they  still  believe  in 
their  old  gods  which  they  themselves  created — fierce, 
bestial  supermen,  more  cruel,  more  powerful,  more 
treacherous,  more  beastly  than  they  themselves. 

"That  is  the  German.  That  is  the  Hun  under  all 
his  disguises.  No  white  man  can  meet  him  on  his 
own  ground ;  no  white  man  can  understand  him,  appeal 
to  anything  in  common  between  himself  and  the  Boche. 
He  is  brutal  and  contemptuous  to  women;  he  is  tyran 
nical  to  the  weak,  cringing  to  the  strong,  fundamen 
tally  bestial,  utterly  selfish,  intolerant  of  any  civilisa 
tion  which  is  not  his  conception  of  civilisation — his 
monkey-like  conception  of  Christ — whom,  in  his  pagan 
soul,  he  secretly  sneers  at — not  always  secretly,  now!" 

She  straightened  up  with  a  quick  little  gesture  of 
179 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


contempt.  Her  face  was  brightly  flushed;  her  eyes 
brilliant  with  scorn. 

"Garry,  has  not  America  heard  enough  of  'the  good 
German,'  the  'kindly  Teuton,'  the  harmless,  sentimen 
tal  and  'excellent  citizen,'  whose  morally  edifying  or 
igin  as  a  model  emigrant  came  out  of  his  own  sly  mouth, 
and  who  has,  by  his  own  propaganda  alone,  become  an 
accepted  type  of  good-natured  thrift  and  erudition  in 
your  Republic? 

"Let  me  say  to  you  what  a  French  girl  thinks!  A 
hundred  years  ago  you  were  a  very  small  nation,  but 
you  were  homogeneous  and  the  average  of  culture  was 
far  higher  in  America  then  than  it  is  at  present.  For 
now,  your  people's  cultivation  and  civilisation  is  di 
luted  by  the  ignorance  of  millions  of  foreigners  to 
whom  you  have  given  hospitality.  And,  of  these,  the 
Germans  have  done  you  the  most  deadly  injury,  vul 
garising  public  taste  in  art  and  literature,  affronting 
your  clean,  sane  intelligence  by  the  new  decadence  and 
perversion  in  music,  in  painting,  in  illustration,  in  fic 
tion. 

"Whatever  the  normal  Hun  touches  he  vulgarises; 
whatever  the  decadent  Boche  touches  he  soils  and  de 
grades  and  transforms  into  a  horrible  abomination. 
This  he  has  done  under  your  eyes  in  art,  in  literature, 
in  architecture,  in  modern  German  music. 

"His  filthy  touch  is  even  on  your  domestic  life — 
this  Barbarian  who  feeds  grossly,  whose  personal  hab 
its  are  a  by-word  among  civilised  and  cultured  people, 
whose  raw  ferocity  is  being  now  revealed  to  the  world 
day  by  day  in  Europe,  whose  proverbial  clumsiness  and 
stupidity  have  long  furnished  your  stage  with  its  oafs 
and  clowns. 

"This  is  the  thing  that  is  now  also  invading  you  with 
thousands  of  spies,  betraying  you  with  millions  of  trai- 

180 


A  MIDNIGHT  TETE-A-TETE 

tors,  and  which  will  one  day  turn  on  you  and  tear  you 
and  trample  you  like  an  enraged  hog,  unless  you  and 
your  people  awake  to  what  is  passing  in  the  world  you 
live  in!" 

She  was  on  her  feet  now,  flushed,  lovely,  superb  in 
her  deep  and  controlled  excitement. 

"I'll  tell  you  this  much,"  she  said.  "It  is  Germany 
that  wishes  my  destruction.  Germany  trapped  me; 
Germany  would  have  destroyed  me  in  the  trap  had  I 
not  escaped.  Now,  Germany  is  afraid  of  me,  know 
ing  what  I  know.  And  her  agents  follow  me,  spy  on 
me,  thwart  me,  prevent  me  from  earning  my  living, 
until  I — I  can  scarcely  endure  it — this  hounding  and 
persecution "  Her  voice  broke ;  she  waited  to  con 
trol  it: 

"I  am  not  a  spy.  I  never  was  one.  I  never  be 
trayed  a  human  soul — no,  nor  any  living  thing  that 
ever  trusted  me!  These  people  who  hound  me  know 
that  I  am  not  guilty  of  that  for  which  another  Gov 
ernment  is  ready  to  try  me — and  condemn  me.  They 
fear  that  I  shall  prove  to  this  other  Government  my 
innocence.  I  can't.  But  they  fear  I  can.  And  the 
Hun  is  afraid  of  me.  Because,  if  I  ever  proved  my  in 
nocence,  it  would  involve  the  arrest  and  trial  and  cer 
tain  execution  of  men  high  in  rank  in  the  capital  of  this 
other  country.  So — the  Hun  dogs  me  everywhere  I 
go.  I  do  not  know  why  he  does  not  try  to  kill  me. 
Possibly  he  lacks  courage,  so  far.  Possibly  he  has 
not  had  any  good  opportunity,  because  I  am  very  care 
ful,  Garry." 

"But  this — this  is  outrageous !"  broke  out  Barres. 
"You  can't  stand  this  sort  of  thing,  Thessa!  It's  a 
matter  for  the  police " 

"Don't  interfere!" 

"But » 

181 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Don't  interfere !  The  last  thing  I  want  is  publicity. 
The  last  thing  I  wish  for  is  that  your  city,  state,  or 
national  government  should  notice  me  at  all  or  have 
any  curiosity  concerning  me  or  any  idea  of  investi 
gating  my  affairs." 

"Why?" 

"Because,  although  as  soon  as  your  country  is  at 
war  with  Germany,  my  danger  from  Germany  ceases, 
on  the  other  hand  another  very  deadly  danger  begins 
at  once  to  threaten  me." 

"What  danger?" 

"It  will  come  from  a  country  with  which  your  coun 
try  will  be  allied.  And  I  shall  be  arrested  here  as  a 
German  spy,  and  I  shall  be  sent  back  to  the  country 
which  I  am  supposed  to  have  betrayed.  And  there 
nothing  in  the  world  could  save  me." 

"You  mean — court-martial?" 

"A  brief  one,  Garry.     And  then  the  end." 

"Death?" 

She  nodded. 

After  a  few  moments  she  moved  toward  the  door. 
He  went  with  her,  picking  up  his  hat. 

"I  can't  let  you  go  with  me,"  she  said  with  a  faint 
smile. 

"Why  not?" 

"You  are  involved  sufficiently  already." 

"What  do  I  care  for " 

"Hush,  Garry.     Do  you  wish  to  displease  me?" 

"No,  but  I " 

"Please!  Call  me  a  taxicab.  I  wish  to  go  back 
alone." 

In  spite  of  argument  she  remained  smilingly  firm. 
Finally  he  rang  up  a  taxi  for  her.  When  it  signalled 
he  walked  down  stairs,  through  the  dim  hall  and  out 
to  the  grilled  gateway  beside  her.  0 

182 


A  MIDNIGHT  TETE-A-TETE 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  giving  her  hand.  He  detained 
it: 

"I  can't  bear  to  have  you  go  alone " 

"I'm  perfectly  safe,  mon  ami.  I've  had  a  delight 
ful  time  at  your  party — really  I  have.  This  affair 
of  the  letter  does  not  spoil  it.  I'm  accustomed  to  sim 
ilar  episodes.  So  now,  good-night." 

"Am  I  to  see  you  again  soon?" 

"Soon?     Ah,  I  can't  tell  you  that,  Garry." 

"When  it  is  convenient  then?" 

"Yes." 

"And  will  you  telephone  me  on  your  safe  arrival  home 
to-night?" 

She  laughed: 

"If  you  wish.  You're  so  sweet  to  me,  Garry.  You 
always  have  been.  Don't  worry  about  me.  I  am  not 
in  the  least  apprehensive.  You  see  I'm  rather  a  clever 
girl,  and  I  know  something  about  the  Boche." 

"You  had  your  letter  stolen." 

"Only  half  of  it!"  she  retorted  gaily.  "She  is  a 
gallant  little  thing,  your  friend  Dulcie.  Please  give 
her  my  love.  As  for  your  other  friends,  they  were 
amusing.  .  .  .  Mr.  Mandel  spoke  to  me  about  an  en 
gagement." 

"Why  don't  you  consider  it?  Corot  Mandel  is  the 
most  important  producer  in  New  York." 

"Is  he,  really?  Well,  if  I'm  not  interfered  with 
perhaps  I  shall  go  to  call  on  Mr.  Mandel."  She  began 
to  laugh  mischievously  to  herself:  "There  was  one 
man  there  who  never  gave  me  a  moment's  peace  until 
I  promised  to  lunch  with  him  at  the  Ritz." 

"Who  the  devil " 

"Mr.  Westmore,"  she  said  demurely. 

"Oh,  Jim  Westmore!  Well,  Thessa,  he's  a  corker. 
183 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


He's  really  a  splendid  fellow,  but  look  out  for  him! 
He's  also  a  philanderer." 

"Oh,  dear.  I  thought  he  was  just  a  sculptor  and 
a  rather  strenuous  young  man." 

"I  wasn't  knocking  him,"  said  Barres,  laughing, 
"but  h3  falls  in  love  with  every  pretty  woman  he  meets. 
I'm  merely  warning  you." 

"Thank  you,  Garry,"  she  smiled.  She  gave  him  her 
hand  again,  pulled  the  rose-coloured  cloak  around  her 
bare  shoulders,  ran  across  the  sidewalk  to  the  taxi, 
and  whispered  to  the  driver. 

"You'll  telephone  me  when  you  get  home?"  he  re 
minded  her,  baffled  but  smiling. 

She  laughed  and  nodded.  The  cab  wheeled  out  into 
the  street,  backed,  turned,  and  sped  away  eastward. 

Half  an  hour  later  his  telephone  rang: 

"Garry,  dear?" 

"Is  it  you,  Thessa?" 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  bed.  .  .  .  Tell  Mr.  Westmore 
that  I'm  not  at  all  sure  I  shall  meet  him  at  the  Ritz 
on  Monday." 

"He'll  go,  anyway.5* 

"Will  he?  What  devotion.  What  faith  in  woman! 
What  a  lively  capacity  for  hope  eternal!  What  van 
ity!  Well,  then,  tell  him  he  may  take  his  chances." 

"I'll  tell  him.  But  I  think  you  might  make  a  date 
with  me,  too,  you  little  fraud!" 

"Maybe  I  will.  Maybe  I'll  drop  in  to  see  you  un 
expectedly  some  morning.  And  don't  let  me  catch 
you  philandering  in  your  studio  with  some  pretty 
woman !" 

"No  fear,  Thessa." 

184 


A  MIDNIGHT  TETE-A-TETE 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure.  And  your  little  model,  Dulcie, 
is  dangerously  attractive." 

"Piffle!     She's  a  kid!" 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,  either!  And  tell  Mr. 
Westmore  that  I  may  keep  my  engagement.  And  then 
again  I  may  not!  Good-night,  Garry,  dear!" 

"Good-night!" 

Walking  slowly  back  to  extinguish  the  lights  in  the 
studio  before  retiring  to  his  own  room  for  the  night, 
Barres  noticed  a  piece  of  paper  on  the  table  under 
the  lamp,  evidently  a  fragment  from  the  torn  letter. 

The  words  "Ferez  Bey"  and  "Murtagh"  caught  his 
eye  before  he  realised  that  it  was  not  his  business  to 
decipher  the  fragment. 

So  he  lighted  a  match,  held  the  shred  of  letter  paper 
to  the  flame,  and  let  it  burn  between  his  fingers  until 
only  a  blackened  cinder  fell  to  the  floor. 

But  the  two  names  were  irrevocably  impressed  on 
his  mind,  and  he  found  himself  wondering  who  these 
men  might  be,  as  he  stood  by  his  bed,  undressing. 


XIV 

PROBLEMS 

THE  weather  was  turning  hot  in  New  York,  and 
by  the  middle  of  the  week  the  city  sweltered. 

Barres,  dropping  his  brushes  and  laying 
aside  a  dozen  pictures  in  all  stages  of  incompletion ; 
and  being,  otherwise,  deeply  bitten  by  the  dangerously 
enchanting  art  of  Manship — dangerous  as  inspiration 
but  enchanting  to  gaze  upon — was  very  busy  making 
out  of  wax  a  diminutive  figure  of  the  running  Arethusa. 

And  Dulcie,  poor  child,  what  with  being  poised  on 
the  ball  of  one  little  foot  and  with  the  other  leg  slung 
up  in  a  padded  loop,  almost  perished.  Perspiration 
spangled  her  body  like  dew  powdering  a  rose;  sweat 
glistened  on  the  features  and  shoulder-bared  arms  of 
the  impassioned  sculptor,  even  blinding  him  at  times; 
but  he  worked  on  in  a  sort  of  furious  exaltation,  reek 
ing  of  ill-smelling  wax.  And  Dulcie,  perfectly  willing 
to  die  at  her  post,  thought  she  was  going  to,  and  finally 
fainted  away  with  an  alarming  thud. 

Which  brought  Barres  to  his  senses,  even  before  she 
had  recovered  hers ;  and  he  proclaimed  a  vacation  for 
his  overworked  Muse  and  his  model,  too. 

"Do  you  feel  better,  Sweetness?"  he  enquired,  as  she 
opened  her  eyes  when  Selinda  exchanged  a  wet  compress 
for  an  ice-bag. 

Dulcie,  flat  on  the  lounge,  swathed  in  a  crash  bath 
robe,  replied  only  by  a  slight  but  reassuring  flutter  of 
one  hand. 

186 


PROBLEMS 


Esme  Trenor  sauntered  in  for  a  gossip,  wearing  his 
celebrated  lilac-velvet  jacket  and  Louis  XV  slippers. 

"Oh,  the  devil,"  he  drawled,  looking  from  Dulcie  to 
the  Arethusa ;  "she's  worth  more  than  your  amateurish 
statuette,  Garry." 

"You  bet  she  is.  And  here's  where  her  vacation  be- 
gins."  ^ 

Esme  turned  to  Dulcie,  lifting  his  eyebrows : 

"You  go  away  with  him?" 

The  idea  had  never  before  entered  Barres's  head. 
But  he  said: 

"Certainly;  we  both  need  the  country  for  a  few 
weeks." 

"You'll  go  to  one  of  those  damned  artists'  colonies, 
I  suppose,"  remarked  Esme;  "otherwise,  washed  and 
unwashed  would  expel  shrill  cries." 

"Probably  not  in  my  own  home,"  returned  Barres, 
coolly.  "I  shall  write  my  family  about  it  to-day." 

Corot  Mandel  dropped  in,  also,  that  morning — he 
and  Esme  were  ever  prowling  uneasily  around  Dulcie 
in  these  days — and  he  studied  the  Arethusa  through  a 
foggy  monocle,  and  he  loitered  about  Dulcie's  couch. 

"You  know,"  he  said  to  Barres,  "there's  nothing  like 
dancing  to  recuperate  from  all  this  metropolitan  pan 
demonium.  If  you  like,  I  can  let  Dulcie  in  on  thai 
thing  I'm  putting  on  at  Northbrook." 

"That's  up  to  her,"  said  Barres.  "It's  her  vaca 
tion,  and  she  can  do  what  she  likes  with  it " 

Esme  interposed  with  characteristic  impudence: 

"Barres  imitates  Manship  with  impunity ;  I'd  like  to 
have  a  plagiaristic  try  at  Sorolla  and  Zuloaga,  if  Dul 
cie  says  the  word.  Very  agreeable  job  for  a  girl  in  hot 
weather,"  he  added,  looking  at  Dulcie,  " — an  easy 
swimming  pose  in  some  nice  cool  little  Adirondack 

lake " 

187 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Seriously,"  interrupted  Mandel,  twirling  his  mon 
ocle  impatiently  by  its  greasy  string,  "I  mean  it, 
Barres."  He  turned  and  looked  at  the  lithely  speed 
ing  Arethusa.  "If  that  is  Dulcie,  I  can  give  her  a 
good  part  in " 

"You  hear,  Dulcie?"  enquired  Barres.  "These  two 
kind  gentlemen  have  what  they  consider  attractive  jobs 
for  you.  All  I  can  offer  you  is  liberty  to  tumble  around 
the  hayfields  at  Foreland  Farms,  with  my  sketching 
easel  in  the  middle  distance.  Now,  choose  your  job, 
Sweetness." 

"The  hayfields   and " 

Dulcie's  voice  faded  to  a  whisper ;  Barres,  seated  be 
side  her,  leaned  nearer,  bending  his  head  to  listen. 

"And  you,"  she  murmured  again,  " — if  you  want 
me." 

"I  always  want  you,"  he  whispered  laughingly,  in 
return. 

Esme  regarded  the  scene  with  weariness  and  chagrin. 

"Come  on,"  he  said  languidly  to  Mandel,  "we'll  buy 
her  some  flowers  for  the  evil  she  does  us.  She'll  need 
'em;  she'll  be  finished  before  this  amateur  sculptor  fin 
ishes  his  blooming  Arethusa." 

Mandel  lingered: 

"I'm  going  up  to  Northbrook  in  a  day  or  two, 
Barres.  If  you  change — change  Dulcie's  mind  for  her, 
just  call  me  up  at  the  Adolf  GerhardtV." 

"Dulcie  will  call  you  up  if  she  changes  my  mind." 

Dulcie  laughed. 

When  they  had  gone,  Barres  said: 

"You  know  I  haven't  thought  about  the  summer. 
What  was  your  idea  about  it?" 

"My— idea?" 

"Yes.  You'd  want  a  couple  of  weeks  in  the  country 
somewhere,  wouldn't  you?" 

188 


PROBLEMS 


"I  don't  know.  I  never  went  away,"  she  replied 
vaguely. 

It  occurred  to  him,  now,  that  for  all  his  pleasant 
toleration  of  Soane's  little  daughter  during  the  two 
years  and  more  of  his  residence  in  Dragon  Court,  he 
had  never  really  interested  himself  in  her  well-being, 
never  thought  to  enquire  about  anything  which  might 
really  concern  her.  He  had  taken  it  for  granted  that 
most  people  have  some  change  from  the  stifling,  grind 
ing,  endless  routine  of  their  lives — some  respite,  some 
quiet  interval  for  recovery  and  rest. 

And  so,  returning  from  his  own  vacations,  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  the  shy  girl  whom  he  permitted 
within  his  precincts,  when  convenient,  never  knew  any 
other  break  in  the  grey  monotony — never  left  the  dusty, 
soiled,  and  superheated  city  from  one  year's  summer 
to  another. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  realised  it. 

"We'll  go  up  there,"  he  said.  "My  family  is  accus 
tomed  to  models  I  bring  there  for  my  summer  work. 
You'll  be  very  comfortable,  and  you'll  feel  quite  at 
home.  We  live  very  simply  at  Foreland  Farms.  Every 
body  will  be  kind  and  nobody  will  bother  you,  and  you 
can  do  exactly  as  you  please,  because  we  all  do  that  at 
Foreland  Farms.  Will  you  come  when  I'm  ready  to 
go  up?" 

She  gave  him  a  sweet,  confused  glance  from  her  grey 
eyes. 

"Do  you  think  your  family  would  mind?" 

"Mind?"  He  smiled.  "We  never  interfere  with  one 
another's  affairs.  It's  not  like  many  families,  I  fancy. 
We  take  it  for  granted  that  nobody  in  the  family  could 
do  anything  not  entirely  right.  So  we  take  that  for 
granted  and  it's  a  jolly  sensible  arrangement." 

She  turned  her  face  on  the  pillow  presently ;  the  ice- 
189 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


bag  slid  off;  she  sat  up  in  her  bathrobe,  stretched  her 
arms,  smiled  faintly: 

"Shall  I  try  again?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  he  said,  "would  you?  Upon  my  word, 
I  believe  you  would !  No  more  posing  to-day !  I'm  not 
a  murderer.  Lie  there  until  you're  ready  to  dress,  and 
then  ring  for  Selinda." 

"Don't  you  want  me?" 

"Yes,  but  I  want  you  alive,  not  dead!  Anyway, 
I've  got  to  talk  to  Westmore  this  morning,  so  you  may 

be  as  lazy  as  you  like — lounge  about,  read "     He 

went  over  to  her,  patted  her  cheek  in  the  smiling,  ab 
sent-minded  way  he  had  with  her:  "Tell  me,  ducky, 
how  are  you  feeling,  anyway?" 

It  confused  her  dreadfully  to  blush  when  he  touched 
her,  but  she  always  did;  and  she  turned  her  face  away 
now,  saying  that  she  was  quite  all  right  again. 

Preoccupied  with  his  own  thoughts,  he  nodded: 

"That's  fine,"  he  said.  "Now,  trot  along  to  Se 
linda,  and  when  you're  fixed  up  you  can  have  the  run 
of  the  place  to  yourself." 

"Could  I  have  my  slippers?"  She  was  very  shy 
even  about  her  bare  feet  when  she  was  not  actually 
posing. 

He  found  her  slippers  for  her,  laid  them  beside  the 
lounge,  and  strolled  away.  Westmore  rang  a  moment 
later,  but  when  he  blew  in  like  a  noisy  breeze  Dulcie 
has  disappeared. 

"My  little  model  toppled  over,"  said  Barres,  taking 
his  visitor's  outstretched  hand  and  wi  icing  under  the 
grip.  "I  shall  cut  out  work  while  this  weather  lasts." 

Westmore  turned  toward  the  Arethusa,  laughed  at 
the  visible  influence  of  Manship. 

"All  the  same,  Garry,"  he  said,  "there's  a  lot  in 
your  running  nymph.  It's  nice ;  it's  knowing." 

190 


PROBLEMS 


"That  is  pleasant  to  hear  from  a  sculptor." 

"Sculptor?  Sometimes  I  feel  like  a  sculpin — prickly 
heat,  you  know."  He  laughed  heartily  at  his  own 
witticism,  slapped  Barres  on  the  shoulder,  lighted  a 
pipe,  and  flung  himself  on  the  couch  recently  vacated 
by  Dulcie. 

"This  damned  war,"  he  said,  "takes  the  native  gaiety 
out  of  a  man — takes  the  laughter  out  of  life.  Over  two 
years  of  it  now,  Garry;  and  it's  as  though  the  sun  is. 
slowly  growing  dimmer  every  day." 

"I  know,"  nodded  Barres. 

"Sure  you  feel  it.  Everybody  does.  By  God,  I  have 
periods  of  sickness  when  the  illustrated  London  period 
icals  arrive,  and  I  see  those  dead  men  pictured  there — 
such  fine,  clean  fellows — our  own  kind — half  of  them 
just  kids! — well,  it  hurts  me  to  look  at  them,  and,  for 
the  sheer  pain  of  it,  I'm  always  inclined  to  shirk  and 
turn  that  page  quickly.  But  I  say  to  myself,  'Jim, 
they're  dead  fighting  Christ's  own  battle,  and  the  least 
you  can  do  is  to  read  their  names  and  ages,  and  look 
upon  their  faces.'  .  .  .  And  I  do  it." 

"So  do  I,"  nodded  Barres,  sombrely  gazing  at  the 
carpet. 

After  a  silence,  Westmore  said: 

"Well,  the  Boche  has  taken  his  medicine  and  canned 
Tirpitz — the  wild  swine  that  he  is.  So  I  don't  suppose 
we'll  get  mixed  up  in  it." 

"The  Hun  is  a  great  liar,"  remarked  Barres.. 
"There's  no  telling." 

"Are  you  going  to  Plattsburg  again  this  year?"  en 
quired  Westmore. 

"I  don't  know.    Are  you?" 

"In  the  autumn,  perhaps.  .  .  .  Garry,  it's  discour 
aging.  Do  you  realise  what  a  gigantic  task  we  have 
ahead  of  us  if  the  Hun  ever  succeeds  in  kicking  us  into 

191 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


this  war?     And  what  a  gigantic  mess  we've  made  of 
two  years*  inactivity?" 

Barres,  pondering,  scowled  at  his  own  thoughts. 

"And  now,"  continued  the  other,  "the  Guard  is  off 
to  the  border,  and  here  we  are,  stripped  clean,  with 
the  city  lousy  with  Germans  and  every  species  of  Hun 
deviltry  hatching  out  fires  and  explosions  and  disloyal 
propaganda  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  from  the 
Lakes  to  the  Gulf! 

"A  fine  mess ! — no  troops,  nothing  to  arm  them  with, 
no  modern  artillery,  no  preparations ;  the  Boche  grow 
ing  more  insolent,  more  murderous,  but  slyer;  a  row 
on  with  Mexico,  another  brewing  with  Japan,  all  Eu 
rope  and  Great  Britain  regarding  us  with  contempt — 
I  ask  you,  can  you  beat  it,  Garry?  Are  there  any 
lower  depths  for  us? — any  sub-cellars  of  iniquity  into 
which  we  can  tumble,  like  the  basket  of  jelly-fish  we 
seem  to  be!" 

"It's  a  nightmare,"  said  Barres.  "Since  Liege  and 
the  Lusitania,  it's  been  a  bad  dream  getting  worse. 
We'll  have  to  wake,  you  know.  If  we  don't,  we're  of 
no  more  substance  than  the  dream  itself: — we  are  the 
dream,  and  we'll  end  like  one." 

"I'm  going  to  wait  a  bit  longer,"  said  Westmore 
restlessly,  "and  if  there's  nothing  doing,  it's  me  for 
the  other  side." 
1     "For  me,  too,  Jim." 

"Is  it  a  bargain?" 

"Certainly.  .  .  .  I'd  rather  go  under  my  own  flag, 
of  course.  .  .  .  We'll  see  how  this  Boche  backdown 
turns  out.  I  don't  think  it  will  last.  I  believe  the  Huns 
have  been  stirring  up  the  Mexicans.  It  wouldn't  sur 
prise  me  if  they  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  Japanese 
menace.  But  what  angers  me  is  to  think  that  we  have 
received  with  innocent  hospitality  these  hundreds  of 

192 


PROBLEMS 


thousands  of  Huns  in  America,  and  that  now,  all  over 
the  land,  this  vast,  acclimated  nest  of  snakes  rises  hiss 
ing  at  us,  menacing  us  with  their  filthy  fangs !" 

"Thank  God  our  police  is  still  half  Irish,"  growled 
Westmore,  puffing  at  his  pipe.  "These  dirty  swine 
might  try  to  rush  the  city  if  war  comes  while  the  Guard 
is  away." 

"They're  doing  enough  damage  as  it  is,"  said  Barres, 
"with  their  traitorous  press,  their  pacifists,  their 
agents  everywhere  inciting  labour  to  strike,  teaching 
disorganisation,  combining  commercially,  directing 
blackmail,  bomb  outrages,  incendiaries,  and  infesting 
the  Republic  with  a  plague  of  spies " 

The  studio  bell  rang  sharply.  Barres,  who  stood 
near  the  door,  opened  it. 

"Thessa!"  he  exclaimed,  astonished  and  delighted. 


XV 

BLACKMAIL 

SHE  came  in  swiftly,  stirring  the  sultry  stillness 
of  the  studio  with  a  little  breeze  from  her  gown, 
faintly  fragrant. 

"Garry,  dear! — "  She  gave  him  both  her  hands  and 
looked  at  him;  and  he  saw  the  pink  tint  of  excitement 
in  her  cheeks  and  her  dark  eyes  brilliant. 
1     "Thessa,  this  is  charming  of  you "       , 

"No !    I  came "     She  cast  a  swift  glance  around 

her,  beheld  Westmore,  gave  him  one  hand  as  he  came 
forward : 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said,  almost  breathlessly, 
plainly  controlling  some  inward  excitement. 

But  Westmore  retained  her  hand  and  laid  the  other 
over  it. 
.     "You  said  you'd  come  to  the  Ritz " 

"I'm  sorry.  ...  I  have  been — bothered — with  mat 
ters—affairs " 

"You  are  bothered  now,"  he  said.  "If  you  have 
something  to  say  to  Garry,  I'll  go  about  my  business. 
.  .  .  Only  I'm  sorry  it's  not  your  business,  too." 

He  released  her  hand  and  reached  for  the  door-knob : 
her  dark  eyes  were  resting  on  him  with  a  strained,  in 
tent  expression.  On  impulse  she  thrust  out  her  arm 
and  closed  the  door,  which  he  had  begun  to  open: 
I  "Please — Mr.  Westmore.  ...  I  do  want  to  see  you. 
I'm  trying  to  think  clearly — "  She  turned  and  looked 
at  Barres. 

194 


BLACKMAIL 


"Is  it  serious?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"I — suppose  so.  ...  Garry,  I  wish  to — to  come 
here  .  .  .  and  stay." 

"What!" 

She  nodded. 

"Is  it  all  right?" 

"All  right,"  he  replied  pleasantly,  bewildered  and 
almost  inclined  to  laugh. 

She  said  in  a  low,  tense  voice: 

"I'm  really  in  trouble,  Garry.  I  told  you  once  that 
the  word  was  not  in  my  vocabulary.  .  .  .  I've  had  to 
include  it." 

"I'm  so  sorry!     Tell  me  all  about " 

He  checked  himself:  she  turned  to  Westmore — a 
deeper  flush  came  into  her  cheeks — then  she  said 
gravely : 

"I  scarcely  know  Mr.  Westmore,  but  if  he  is  like 
you,  Garry — your  sort — perhaps  he " 

"He'd  do  anything  for  you,  Thessa,  if  you'll  let  him, 
Have  you  confidence  in  me?" 

"You  know  I  have." 

"Then  you  can  have  the  same  confidence  in  Jim.  I 
suggest  it  because  I  have  a  hazy  idea  what  your  trou 
ble  is.  And  if  you  came  to  ask  advice,  then  I  think 
that  you'll  get  double  value  if  you  include  Jim  West- 
more  in  your  confidence." 

She  stood  silent  and  with  heightened  colour  for  a 
moment,  then  her  expression  became  humorous,  and, 
partly  turning,  she  put  out  her  gloved  hand  be 
hind  her  and  took  hold  of  Westmore's  sleeve.  It  was 
at  once  an  appeal  and  an  impulsive  admission  of  her 
confidence  in  this  young  man  whom  she  had  liked  from 
the  beginning,  and  who  must  be  trustworthy  because 
he  was  the  friend  of  Garret  Barres. 

"I'm  scared  half  to  death,"  she  remarked,  without  a 
195 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


quaver  in  her  voice,  but  her  smile  had  now  become 
forced,  and  a  quick,  uneven  little  sigh  escaped  her  as 
she  passed  her  arms  through  Barres'  and  Westmore's, 
and,  moving  across  the  carpet  between  them,  suffered 
herself  to  be  installed  among  the  Chinese  cushions  upon 
the  lounge  by  the  open  window. 

In  her  distractingly  pretty  summer  hat  and  gown, 
and  with  her  white  gloves  and  gold-mesh  purse  in  her 
lap — her  fresh,  engaging  face  and  daintily  rounded 
figure — Thessalie  Dunois  seemed  no  more  mature,  no 
more  experienced  in  worldly  wisdom,  than  the  charm 
ing  young  girls  one  passes  on  Fifth  Avenue  on  a  golden 
morning  in  early  spring. 

But  Westmore,  looking  into  her  dark  eyes,  divined, 
perhaps,  something  less  inexperienced,  less  happy  in 
their  lovely,  haunted  depths.  And,  troubled  by  he 
knew  not  what,  he  waited  in  silence  for  her  to  speak. 

Barres  said  to  her: 

"You  are  being  annoyed,  Thessa,  dear.  I  gather 
that  much  from  what  has  already  happened.  Can  Jim 
and  I  do  anything?" 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  It's  come  to  a  point  where  I — 
I'm  afraid — to  be  alone." 

Her  gaze  fell;  she  sat  brooding  for  a  few  moments, 
then,  with  a  quick  intake  of  breath: 

"It  humiliates  me  to  come  to  you.  Would  you  be 
lieve  that  of  me,  Garry,  that  it  has  come  to  a  point 
where  I  am  actually  afraid  to  be  alone?  I  thought  I 
had  plenty  of  what  the  world  calls  courage." 

"You  have!" 

"I  had.  I  don't  know  what's  become  of  it — what  has 
happened  to  me.  ...  I  don't  want  to  tell  you  more 
than  I  have  to " 

"Tell  us  as  much  as  you  think  necessary,"  said 
Barres,  watching  her. 

196 


BLACKMAIL 

"Thank  you.  .  .  .  Well,  then,  some  years  ago  I 
earned  the  enmity  of  a  man.  And,  through  him,  a 
European  Government  blacklisted  me.  It  was  a  ter 
rible  thing.  I  did  not  fully  appreciate  what  it  meant 
at  the  time."  She  turned  to  Westmore  in  her  pretty, 
impulsive  way:  "This  European  Government,  of  which 
I  speak,  believes  me  to  be  the  agent  of  another  foreign 
government — believes  that  I  betrayed  its  interests. 
This  man  whom  I  offended,  to  punish  me  and  to  cover 
his  own  treachery,  furnished  evidence  which  would  have 
convicted  me  of  treachery  and  espionage." 

The  excited  colour  began  to  dye  her  cheeks  again; 
she  stretched  out  one  arm  in  appeal  to  Westmore: 

"Please  believe  me !  I  am  no  spy.  I  never  was.  I 
was  too  young,  too  stupid,  too  innocent  in  such  mat 
ters  to  know  what  this  man  was  about — that  he  had 
very  cleverly  implicated  me  in  this  abhorrent  matter. 
Do  you  believe  me,  Mr.  Westmore?" 

"Of  course  I  do!"  he  said  with  a  fervour  not,  per 
haps,  necessary.  "If  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  point 
out  that  gentleman " 

"Wait,  Jim,"  interposed  Barres,  nodding  to  Thes- 
salie  to  proceed. 

She  had  been  looking  at  Westmore,  apparently  much 
interested  in  his  ardour,  but  she  came  to  herself  when 
Barres  interrupted,  and  sat  silent  again  as  though 
searching  her  mind  concerning  what  further  she  might 
say.  Slowly  the  forced  smile  curved  her  lips  again. 
She  said: 

"I  don't  know  just  what  that  enraged  European 
Government  might  have  done  to  me  had  I  been  arrested, 
because  I  ran  away  .  .  .  and  came  here.  .  .  .  But  the 
man  whom  I  offended  discovered  where  I  was  and  never 
for  a  day  even  have  his  agents  ceased  to  watch  me, 

annoy  me " 

197 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


There  was  a  quick  break  in  her  voice;  she  set  her 
lips  in  silence  until  the  moment's  emotion  had  passed, 
then,  turning  to  Westmore  with  winning  dignity:  "I 
am  a  dancer  and  singer — an  entertainer  of  sorts,  by 
profession.  I " 

"Tell  Westmore  a  little  more,  Thessa,"  said  Barres. 

"If  you  think  it  necessary." 

"I'll  tell  him.  Miss  Dunois  was  the  most  celebrated 
entertainer  in  Europe  when  this  happened.  Since  she 
came  here  the  man  she  has  mentioned  has,  somehow, 
managed  to  interfere  and  spoil  every  business  arrange 
ment  which  she  has  attempted."  He  looked  at  Thessa* 
"I  don't  know  whether,  if  Thessalie  had  cared  to  use 
the  name  under  which  she  was  known  all  over  Eu 
rope " 

"I  didn't  dare,  Garry.  I  thought  that,  if  some 
manager  would  only  give  me  a  chance  I  could  make  a 
new  name  for  myself.  But  wherever  I  went  I  was 
Hogged,  and  every  arrangement  was  spoiled.  ...  I  had 
my  jewels.  .  .  .  You  remember  some  of  them,  Garry. 
I  gave  those  away — I  think  I  told  you  why.  But  I 
had  other  jewels — unset  diamonds  given  to  my  mother 
by  Prince  Haledine.  Well,  I  sold  them  and  invested 
the  money.  .  .  .  And  my  income  is  all  I  have — quite  a 
tiny  income,  Mr.  Westmore,  but  enough.  Only  I  could 
have  done  very  well  here,  I  think,  if  I  had  not  been 
interfered  with." 

"Thessa,"  said  Barres,  "why  not  tell  us  both  a  little 
more?  We're  devoted  to  you." 

The  girl  lifted  her  dark  eyes,  and  unconsciously  they 
were  turned  to  Westmore.  And  in  that  young  man's 
vigorous,  virile  personality  perhaps  she  recognised 
,something  refreshing,  subtlely  compelling,  for,  still 
looking  at  him,  she  began  to  speak  quite  naturally  of 

198 

» 


BLACKMAIL 

things  which  had  long  been  locked  within  her  lonely 
heart: 

"I  was  scarcely  more  than  a  child  when  General 
Count  Klingenkampf  killed  my  father.  The  Grand 
Duke  Cyril  hushed  it  up. 

"I  had  several  thousand  roubles.  I  had — trouble 
with  the  Grand  Duke.  .  .  .  He  annoyed  me  ...  as 
some  men  annoy  a  woman.  .  .  .  And  when  I  put  him 
in  his  place  he  insulted  the  memory  of  my  mother  be 
cause  she  was  a  Georgian.  ...  I  slapped  his  face  with 
a  whip.  .  .  .  And  then  I  had  to  run  away." 

She  drew  a  quick,  uneven  breath,  smiling  at  West- 
more  from  whose  intent  gaze  her  own  dark  eyes  never 
wandered. 

"My  father  had  been  a  French  officer  before  he  took 
service  in  Russia,"  she  said.  "I  was  educated  in  Alsace 
and  then  in  England.  Then  my  father  sent  for  me  and 
I  returned  to  St.  Peters — I  mean  Petrograd.  And  be 
cause  I  loved  dancing  my  father  obtained  permission 
for  me  to  study  at  the  Imperial  school.  Also,  I  had 
it  in  me  to  sing,  and  I  had  excellent  instruction. 

"And  because  I  did  such  things  in  my  own  way, 
sometimes  my  father  permitted  me  to  entertain  at  the 
gay  gatherings  patronised  by  the  Grand  Duke  Cyril." 

She  smiled  in  reminiscence,  and  her  gaze  became  re 
mote  for  a  moment.  Then,  coming  back,  she  lifted  her 
eyes  once  more  to  Westmore's : 

"I  ran  away  from  Cyril  and  went  to  Constantinople, 
where  Von-der-Goltz  Pasha  and  others  whom  I  had  met 
at  the  Grand  Duke's  parties,  when  little  more  than  a 
child,  were  stationed.  I  entertained  at  the  German 
Embassy,  and  at  the  Yildiz  Palace.  ...  I  was  suc 
cessful.  And  my  success  brought  me  opportunities — 
of  the  wrong  kind.  Do  you  understand?" 

Westmore  nodded. 

199 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"So,"  she  continued,  with  a  slight  movement  of  dis 
dain,  "I  didn't  quite  see  how  I  was  to  get  to  Paris  all 
alone  and  begin  a  serious  career.  And  one  evening  I 
entertained  at  the  German  Embassy — tell  me,  do  you 
know  Constantinople?" 

"No." 

"Well,  it  is  nothing  except  a  vast  mass  of  gossip 
and  intrigue.  One  breakfasts  on  rumours,  lunches  on 
secrets,  and  dines  on  scandals.  And  my  maid  told  me 
enough  that  day  to  make  certain  matters  quite  clear 
to  me. 

"And  so  I  entertained  at  the  Embassy.  .  .  .  After 
ward  it  was  no  surprise  when  his  Excellency  whispered 
to  me  that  an  honest  career  was  assured  me  if  I  chose, 
and  that  I  might  be  honestly  launched  in  Paris  with 
out  paying  the  price  which  I  would  not  pay. 

"Later  I  was  not  surprised,  either,  when  Ferez  Bey, 
a  friend  of  my  father,  and  a  man  I  had  known  since 

childhood,  presented  me  to — to "  She  glanced  at 

Barres;  he  nodded;  she  concluded  to  name  the  man: 
" — the  Count  d'Eblis,  a  Senator  of  France,  and  owner 
of  the  newspaper  called  Le  Mot  d'Ordre." 

After  a  silence  she  stole  another  glance  at  Barres ;  a 
smile  hovered  on  her  lips.  He,  also,  smiled;  for  he, 
too,  was  thinking  of  that  moonlit  way  they  travelled 
together  on  a  night  in  June  so  long  ago. 

Her  glance  asked: 

"Is  it  necessary  to  tell  Mr.  Westmore  this?" 

He  shook  his  head  very  slightly. 

"Well,"  she  went  on,  her  eyes  reverting  again  to 
Westmore,  "the  Count  d'Eblis,  it  appeared,  had  fallen 
in  love  with  me  at  first  sight.  ...  In  the  beginning  he 
misunderstood  me.  .  .  .  When  he  realised  that  I  would 
endure  no  nonsense  from  any  man  he  proved  to  be 
sufficiently  infatuated  with  me  to  offer  me  marriage." 

200 


BLACKMAIL 


She  shrugged: 

"At  that  age  one  man  resembled  another  to  me. 
Marriage  was  a  convention,  a  desirable  business  ar 
rangement.  The  Count  was  in  a  position  to  launch 
me  into  a  career.  Careers  begin  in  Paris.  And  I  knew 
enough  to  realise  that  a  girl  has  to  pay  in  one  way  or 
another  for  such  an  opportunity.  So  I  said  that  I 
would  marry  him  if  I  came  to  care  enough  for  him. 
Which  merely  meant  that  if  he  were  ordinarily  polite 
and  considerate  and  companionable  I  would  ultimately 
become  his  wife. 

"That  was  the  arrangement.  And  it  caused  much 
trouble.  Because  I  was  a — "  she  smiled  at  Barres, 
" — a  success  from  the  first  moment.  And  d'Eblis  im 
mediately  began  to  be  abominably  jealous  and  unrea 
sonable.  Again  and  again  he  broke  his  promise  and 
tried  to  interfere  with  my  career.  He  annoyed  me  con 
stantly  by  coming  to  my  hotel  at  inopportune  mo 
ments  ;  he  made  silly  scenes  if  I  ventured  to  have  any 
friends  or  if  I  spoke  twice  to  the  same  man;  he  dis 
trusted  me — he  and  Ferez  Bey,  who  had  taken  service 
with  him.  Together  they  humiliated  me,  made  my  life 
miserable  by  their  distrust. 

"I  warned  d'Eblis  that  his  absurd  jealousy  and  un- 
kindness  would  not  advance  him  in  my  interest.  And 
for  a  while  he  seemed  to  become  more  reasonable.  In 
fact,  he  apparently  became  sane  again,  and  I  had  even 
consented  to  our  betrothal,  when,  by  accident,  I  dis 
covered  that  he  and  Ferez  were  having  me  followed 
everywhere  I  went.  And  that  very  night  was  to  have 
been  a  gay  one — a  party  in  honour  of  our  betrothal — 
the  night  I  discovered  what  he  and  Ferez  had  been  doing 
to  me. 

"I  was  so  hurt,  so  incensed,  that — "  She  cast  an  in 
voluntary  glance  at  Barres ;  he  made  a  slight  movement 

201 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


of  negation,  and  she  concluded  her  sentence  calmly: 
" — I  quarrelled  with  d'Eblis.  .  .  .  There  was  a  very 
dreadful  scene.  And  it  transpired  that  he  had  sold  a 
preponderating  interest  in  Le  Mot  d'Ordre  to  Ferez 
Bey,  who  was  operating  the  paper  in  German  interests 
through  orders  directly  from  Berlin.  And  d'Eblis 
thought  I  knew  this  and  that  I  meant  to  threaten  him> 
perhaps  blackmail  him,  to  shield  some  mythical  lover 
with  whom,  he  declared,  I  had  become  involved,  and 
who  was  betraying  him  to  the  British  Ambassador." 

She  drew  a  deep,  long  breath: 

"Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  say  that  there  was  not  a 
particle  of  truth  in  his  hysterical  accusations? — that 
I  was  utterly  astounded?  But  my  amazement  became 
anger  and  then  sheer  terror  when  I  learned  from  his 
own  lips  that  he  had  cunningly  involved  me  in  his  trans 
actions  with  Ferez  and  with  Berlin.  So  cunningly,  so 
cleverly,  so  seriously  had  he  managed  to  compromise 
me  as  a  German  agent  that  he  had  a  mass  of  evidence 
against  me  sufficient  to  have  had  me  court-martialled 
and  shot  had  it  been  in  time  of  war. 

"To  me  the  situation  seemed  hopeless.  I  never  would 
be  believed  by  the  French  Government.  Horror  of  ar-^ 
rest  overwhelmed  me.  In  a  panic  I  took  my  unset 
jewels  and  fled  to  Belgium.  And  then  I  came  here." 

She  paused,  trembling  a  little  at  the  memory  of  it 
all.  Then: 

"The  agents  of  d'Eblis  and  Ferez  discovered  me  and 
have  given  me  no  peace.  I  do  not  appeal  to  the  police 
because  that  would  stir  up  secret  agents  of  the  French 
Government.  But  it  has  come  now  to  a  place  where — 
where  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  .  .  .  And  so — being 
afraid  at  last — I  am  here  to — to  ask — advice " 

She  waited  to  control  her  voice,  then  opened  her 
gold-mesh  bag  and  drew  from  it  a  letter. 

202 


BLACKMAIL 


"Three  weeks  ago  I  received  this,"  she  said.  "I 
ignored  it.  Two  weeks  ago,  as  I  opened  the  door  of 
my  room  to  go  out,  a  shot  was  fired  at  me,  and  I  heard 
somebody  running  down  stairs.  ...  I  was  badly 
scared.  But  I  went  out  and  did  my  shopping,  and 
then  I  went  to  the  writing  room  of  a  hotel  and  wrote 
to  Garry.  .  .  .  Somebody  watching  me  must  have  seen 
me  write  it,  because  an  attempt  was  made  to  steal  the 
letter.  A  man  wearing  a  handkerchief  over  his  face 
tried  to  snatch  it  out  of  the  hands  of  Dulcie  Soane. 
But  he  got  only  half  of  the  letter. 

"And  when  I  got  home  that  same  evening  I  found 
that  my  room  had  been  ransacked.  .  .  .  That  was  why 
I  did  not  go  to  meet  you  at  the  Ritz ;  I  was  too  upset. 
Besides,  I  was  busy  moving  my  quarters.  .  .  .  But  it 
was  no  use.  Last  night  I  was  awakened  by  hearing 
somebody  working  at  the  lock  of  my  bedroom.  And  I 
sat  up  till  morning  with  a  pistol  in  my  hand.  .  .  .  And 
— I  don't  think  I  had  better  live  entirely  alone — until 
it  is  safer.  Do  you,  Garry?" 

"I  should  think  not!"  said  Westmore,  turning  red 
with  anger. 

"Did  you  wish  us  to  see  that  letter?"  asked  Barres. 

She  handed  it  to  him.  It  was  typewritten;  and  he 
read  it  aloud,  leisurely  and  very  distinctly,  pausing 
now  and  then  to  give  full  weight  to  some  particularly 
significant  and  sinister  sentence: 

"MADEMOISELLE  : 

"For  two  years  and  more  it  has  been  repeatedly  intimated 
to  you  that  your  presence  in  America  is  not  desirable  to 
certain  people,  except  under  certain  conditions,  which  con 
ditions  you  refuse  to  consider. 

"You  have  impudently  ignored  these  intimations. 

"Now,  you  are  beginning  to  meddle.  Therefore,  this 
warning  is  sent  to  you:  Mind  your  business  and  cease 
your  meddling! 

203 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Moreover,  you  are  invited  to  leave  the  United  States 
at  your  early  convenience. 

"France,  England,  Russia,  and  Italy  are  closed  to  you. 
Without  doubt  you  understand  that.  Also,  doubtless  you 
have  no  desire  to  venture  into  Germany,  Austria,  Bulgaria, 
or  Turkey.  Scandinavia  remains  open  to  you,  and  prac 
tically  no  other  country  except  Spain,  because  we  do  not 
permit  you  to  go  to  Mexico  or  to  Central  or  South  America. 
Do  you  comprehend  ?  We  do  not  permit  it. 

"Therefore,  hold  your  tongue  and  control  your  furor 
tcribendi  while  in  New  York.  And  make  arrangements 
to  take  the  next  Danish  steamer  for  Christiania. ' 

"This  is  a  friendly  warning.  For  if  you  are  still  here 
in  the  United  States  two  weeks  after  you  have  received 
this  letter,  other  measures  will  be  taken  in  your  regard 
which  will  effectually  dispose  of  your  troublesome  presence. 

"The  necessity  which  forces  us  to  radical  action  in  this 
affair  is  regrettable,  but  entirely  your  own  fault. 

"You  have,  from  time  to  time  during  the  last  two  years, 
received  from  us  overtures  of  an  amicable  nature.  You 
have  been  approached  with  discretion  and  have  been  offered 
every  necessary  guarantee  to  cover  an  understanding 
with  us. 

"You  have  treated  our  advances  with  frivolity  and  con 
tempt.  And  what  have  you  gained  by  your  defiance  ? 

"Our  patience  and  good  nature  has  reached  its  limits. 
We  shall  ask  nothing  further  of  you;  we  deliver  you  our 
orders  hereafter.  And  our  orders  are  to  leave  New  York 
immediately. 

"Yet,  even  now,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  it  may  not  be  too 
late  for  us  to  come  to  some  understanding  if  you  change 
your  attitude  entirely  and  show  a  proper  willingness  to 
negotiate  with  us  in  all  good  faith. 

"But  that  must  be  accomplished  within  the  two  weeks' 
grace  given  you  before  you  depart. 

"You  know  how  to  proceed.  If  you  try  to  play  us  false 
you  had  better  not  have  been  born.  If  you  deal  honestly 
with  us  your  troubles  are  over. 

"This  is  final. 

"THE  WATCHER." 


XVI 

THE    WATCHER 

THE  WATCHER,"  repeated  Barres,  studying  the 
typewritten    signature    for    a    moment   longer. 
Then  he  looked  at  Westmore:  "What  do  you 
think  of  that,  Jim?" 

Westmore,  naturally  short  tempered,  became  very 
red,  got  to  his  feet,  and  began  striding  about  the  studio 
as  though  some  sudden  blaze  of  inward  anger  were 
driving  him  into  violent  motion. 

"The  thing  to  do,"  he  said,  "is  to  catch  this 
'Watcher'  fellow  and  beat  him  up.  That's  the  way  to 
deal  with  blackmailers — catch  'em  and  beat  'em  up — 
vermin  of  this  sort — this  blackmailing  fraternity! — I 
haven't  anything  to  do;  I'll  take  the  job!" 

"We'd  better  talk  it  over  first,"  suggested  Barres. 
"There  seem  to  be  several  ways  of  going  about  it.  One 
way,  of  course,  is  to  turn  detective  and  follow  Thessa 
around  town.  And,  as  you  say,  spot  any  man  who 
dogs  her  and  beat  him  up  very  thoroughly.  That's 
your  way,  Jim.  But  Thessa,  unfortunately,  doesn't 
desire  to  be  featured,  and  you  can't  go  about  beating 
up  people  in  the  streets  of  New  York  without  inviting 
publicity." 

Westmore  came  back  and  stood  near  Thessalie,  who 
looked  up  at  him  from  her  seat  on  the  Chinese  couch 
with  visible  interest: 

"Mr.  Westmore?" 

"Yes?" 

205 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Garry  is  quite  right  about  the  way  I  feel.  I  don't 
want  notoriety.  I  can't  afford  it.  It  would  mean 
stirring  up  every  French  Government  agent  here  in 
New  York.  And  if  America  should  ever  declare  war 
on  Germany  and  become  an  ally  of  France,  then  your 
own  Secret  Service  here  would  instantly  arrest  me  and 
probably  send  me  to  France  to  stand  trial." 

She  bent  her  pretty  head,  adding  in  a  quiet  voice: 

"Extradition  would  bring  a  very  swift  end  to  my 
career.  With  the  lying  evidence  against  me  and  a  Sen 
ator  of  France  to  corroborate  it  by  perjury — ask  your 
selves,  gentlemen,  how  long  it  would  take  a  military 
court  to  send  me  to  the  parade  in  the  nearest  caserne !" 

"Do  you  mean  they'd  shoot  you?"  demanded  West- 
more,  aghast. 

"Any  court-martial  to-day  would  turn  me  over  to  a 
firing  squad!" 

"You  see,"  said  Barres,  turning  to  Westmore,  "this 
is  a  much  more  serious  matter  than  a  case  of  ordinary 
blackmail." 

"Why  not  go  to  our  own  Secret  Service  authorities 
and  lay  the  entire  business  before  them?"  asked  West- 
more  excitedly. 

But  Thessalie  shook  her  head: 

"The  evidence  against  me  in  Paris  is  overwhelming. 
My  dossier  alone,  as  it  now  stands,  would  surely  con 
demn  me  without  corroborative  evidence.  Your  people 
here  would  never  believe  in  me  if  the  French  Govern 
ment  forwarded  to  them  a  copy  of  my  dossier  from  the 
secret  archives  in  Paris.  As  for  my  own  Govern 
ment "  She  merely  shrugged. 

Barres,  much  troubled,  glanced  from  Thessalie  to 
Westmore. 

"It's  rather  a  rotten  situation,"  he  said.  "There 
must  be,  of  course,  some  sensible  way  to  tackle  it, 

£06 


THE  WATCHER 


though  I  don't  quite  see  it  yet.  But  one  thing  is  very 
plain  to  me:  Thessa  ought  to  remain  here  with  us  for 
the  present.  Don't  you  think  so,  Jim?" 

"How  can  I,  Garry?"  she  asked.  "You  have  only 
one  room,  and  I  couldn't  turn  you  out " 

"I  can  arrange  that,"  interposed  Westmore,  turn 
ing  eagerly  to  Barres  with  a  significant  gesture  toward 
the  door  at  the  end  of  the  studio.  "There's  the  solu 
tion,  isn't  it?" 

"Certainly,"  agreed  Barres ;  and  to  Thessalie,  in  ex 
planation:  "Westmore's  two  bedrooms  adjoin  my 
studio — beyond  that  wall.  We  have  merely  to  unlock 
those  folding  doors  and  throw  his  apartment  into  mine, 
making  one  long  suite  of  rooms.  Then  you  may  have 
my  room  and  I'll  take  his  spare  room." 

She  still  hesitated. 

"I  am  very  grateful,  Garry,  and  I  admit  that  I  am 
becoming  almost  afraid  to  remain  entirely  alone, 
but " 

"Send  for  your  effects,"  he  insisted  cheerfully. 
"Aristocrates  will  move  my  stuff  into  Westmore's  spare 
room.  Then  you  shall  take  my  quarters  and  be  com 
fortable  and  well  guarded  with  Aristocrates  and  Se- 
linda  on  one  side  of  you,  and  Jim  and  myself  just  across 
the  studio."  He  cast  a  sombre  glance  at  Westmore: 
"I  suppose  those  rats  -will  ultimately  trail  her  to  this 
place." 

Westmore  turned  to  Thessalie: 

"Where  are  your  effects?"  he  asked. 

She  smiled  forlornly: 

"I  gave  up  my  lodgings  this  morning,  packed  every 
thing,  and  came  here,  rather  scared."  A  little  flush 
came  over  her  face  and  she  lifted  her  dark  eyes  and 
met  Westmore's  intent  gaze.  "You  are  very  kind,"  she 
said.  "My  trunks  are  at  the  Grand  Central  Station 

207 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


— if  you  desire  to  make  up  my  disconcerted  mind  for 
me.  Do  you  really  want  me  to  come  here  and  stay  a 
few  days?" 

Westmore  suppressed  himself  no  longer: 

"I  won't  let  you  go !"  he  said.  "I'm  worried  sick 
about  you !"  And  to  Barres,  who  sat  slightly  amazed 
at  his  friend's  warmth: 

"Do  you  suppose  any  of  those  dirty  dogs  have  traced 
the  trunks?" 

Thessalie  said: 

"I've  never  yet  been  able  to  conceal  anything  from 
them." 

"Probably,  then,"  said  Barres,  "they  have  traced 
your  luggage  and  are  watching  it." 

"Give  me  your  checks,  anyway,"  said  Westmore. 
"I'll  go  at  once  and  get  your  baggage  and  bring  it 
here.  If  they're  watching  for  you  it  will  jolt  them  to 
see  a  man  on  the  job." 

Barres  nodded  approval ;  Thessalie  opened  her  purse 
and  handed  Westmore  the  checks. 

"You  both  are  so  kind,"  she  murmured.  "I  have  not 
felt  so  sheltered,  so  secure  in  many,  many  months." 

Westmore,  extremely  red  again,  controlled  his  emo 
tions — whatever  they  were — with  a  visible  effort: 

"Don't  worry  for  one  moment,"  he  said.  "Garry 
and  I  are  going  to  settle  this  outrageous  business  for 
you.  Now,  I'm  off  to  find  your  trunks.  And  if  you 
could  give  me  a  description  of  any  of  these  fellows 
who  follow  you  about " 

"Please — you  are  not  to  beat  up  anybody!"  she  re 
minded  him,  with  a  troubled  smile. 

"I'll  remember.     I  promise  you  not  to." 

Barres  said: 

"I  think  one  of  them  is  a  tall,  bony,  one-eyed  man, 
208 


THE  WATCHER 


who  has  been  hanging  around  here  pretending  to  peddle 
artists'  materials." 

Thessalie  made  a  quick  gesture  of  assent  and  of  cau 
tion: 

"Yes!  His  name  is  Max  Freund.  I  have  found  it 
impossible  to  conceal  my  whereabouts  from  him.  This 
man,  with  only  one  eye,  appears  to  be  a  friend  of  the 
superintendent,  Soane.  I  am  not  certain  that  Soane 
himself  is  employed  by  this  gang  of  blackmailers,  but 
I  believe  that  his  one-eyed  friend  may  pay  him  for  any 
scraps  of  information  concerning  me." 

"Then  we  had  better  keep  an  eye  on  Soane,"  growled 
Westmore.  "He's  no  good ;  he'll  take  graft  from  any 
body." 

"Where  is  his  daughter,  Dulcie?"  asked  Thessalie. 
"Is  she  not  your  model,  Garry?" 

"Yes.  She's  in  my  room  now,  lying  down.  This 
morning  it  was  pretty  hot  in  here,  and  Dulcie  fainted 
on  the  model  stand." 

"The  poor  child!"  exclaimed  Thessalie  impulsively. 
"Could  I  go  in  and  see  her?" 

"Why,  yes,  if  you  like,"  he  replied,  surprised  at  her 
warm-hearted  interest.  He  added,  as  Thessalie  rose: 
"She  is  really  all  right  again.  But  go  in  if  you  like. 
And  you  might  tell  Dulcie  she  can  have  her  lunch  in 
there  if  she  wants  it;  but  if  she's  going  to  dress  she 
ought  to  be  about  it,  because  it's  getting  on  toward 
the  luncheon  hour." 

So  Thessalie  went  swiftly  away  down  the  corridor  to 
knock  at  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  and  Barres  walked 
out  with  Westmore  as  far  as  the  stairs. 

"Jim,"  he  said  very  soberly,  "this  whole  business 
looks  ugly  to  me.  Thessa  seems  to  be  seriously  en 
tangled  in  the  meshes  of  some  blackmailing  spider  who 
is  sewing  her  up  tight." 

209 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"It's  probably  a  tighter  web  than  we  realise," 
growled  Westmore.  "It  looks  to  me  as  though  Miss 
Dunois  has  been  caught  in  the  main  net  of  German 
intrigue.  And  that  the  big  spider  in  Berlin  did  the 
spinning." 

"That's  certainly  what  it  looks  like,"  admitted  the 
other  in  a  grave  voice.  "I  don't  believe  that  this  is 
merely  a  local  matter — an  affair  of  petty,  personal 
vengeance:  I  believe  that  the  Hun  is  actually  afraid 
of  her — afraid  of  the  evidence  she  might  be  able  to 
furnish  against  certain  traitors  in  Paris." 

Westmore  nodded  gloomily: 

"I'm  pretty  sure  of  it,  too.  They've  tried,  appar 
ently,  to  win  her  over.  They've  tried,  also,  to  drive 
her  out  of  this  country.  Now,  they  mean  to  force  her 
out,  or  perhaps  kill  her!  Good  God!  Garry,  did 
you  ever  hear  of  such  filthy  impudence  as  this  entire 
German  propaganda  in  America?" 

"Go  and  get  her  trunks,"  said  Barres,  deeply  wor 
ried.,  "By  the  time  you  fetch  'em  back  here,  lunch  will 
be  ready.  Afterward,  we'd  all  better  get  together  and 
talk  over  this  unpleasant  situation." 

Westmore  glanced  at  his  watch,  turned  and  went 
swinging  away  in  his  quick,  energetic  stride.  Barres 
walked  slowly  back  to  the  studio. 

There  was  nobody  there.  Thessalie  had  not  yet  re 
turned  from  her  visit  to  Dulcie  Soane. 

The  Prophet,  however,  came  in  presently,  his  tail 
politely  hoisted.  An  agreeable  aroma  from  the  kitchen 
had  doubtless  allured  him;  he  made  an  amicable  re 
mark  to  Barres,  suffered  himself  to  be  caressed,  then 
sprang  to  the  carved  table — his  favourite  vantage 
point  for  observation — and  gazed  solemnly  toward  the 
dining-room. 

For  half  an  hour  or  more,  Barres  fussed  and  pot- 
210 


THE  WATCHER 


tered  about  in  the  rather  aimless  manner  of  all  artists, 
shifting  canvases  and  stacking  them  against  the  wall, 
twirling  his  wax  Arethusa  around  to  inspect  her  from 
every  possible  and  impossible  angle,  using  clouds  of 
fixitive  on  such  charcoal  studies  as  required  it,  scrap 
ing  away  meditatively  at  a  too  long  neglected  palette. 

He  was  already  frankly  concerned  about  Thessalie, 
and  the  more  he  considered  her  situation  the  keener 
grew  his  apprehension. 

Yet  he,  like  all  his  fellow  Americans,  had  not  yet 
actually  persuaded  himself  to  believe  in  spies. 

Of  course  he  read  about  them  and  their  machinations 
in  the  daily  papers ;  the  spy  scare  was  already  well 
developed  in  New  York;  yet,  to  him  and  to  the  great 
majority  of  his  fellow  countrymen,  people  who  made  a 
profession  of  such  a  dramatic  business  seemed  unreal 
— abstract  types,  not  concrete  examples  of  the  human 
race — and  he  could  not  believe  in  them — could  neither 
visualise  such  people  nor  realise  that  they  existed  out 
side  melodrama  or  the  covers  of  a  best-seller. 

There  is  an  incredulity  which  knows  yet  refuses  to 
believe  in  its  own  knowledge.  It  is  very  American  and 
it  represented  the  paradoxical  state  of  mind  of  this 
deeply  worried  young  man,  as  he  stood  there  in  the 
studio,  scraping  away  mechanically  at  his  crusted 
palette. 

Then,  as  he  turned  to  lay  it  aside,  through  the  open 
studio  door  he  saw  a  strange,  bespectacled  man  looking 
in  at  him  intently. 

An  unpleasant  shock  passed  through  him,  and  his 
instinct  started  him  toward  the  open  door  to  close  it. 

"Excuse,"  said  he  of  the  thick  spectacles  ;  and  Barres 
stopped  short: 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  asked  sharply. 

The  man,  who  was  well  dressed  and  powerfully  built, 
211 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


squinted  through  his  spectacles  out  of  little,  inflamed 
and  pig-like  eyes. 

"Miss  Dunois  iss  here?"  he  enquired  politely.  "I 
haff  a  message " 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Excuse,  please.  My  name  iss  not  personally  known 
to  Miss  Dunois " 

"Then  what  is  your  business  with  Miss  Dunois?" 

"Excuse,  please.  It  iss  of  a  delicacy — of  a  nature 
quite  private,  iff  you  please." 

Barres  inspected  him  in  hostile  silence  for  a  moment, 
then  came  to  a  swift  conclusion. 

"Very  well.     Step  inside,"  he  said  briefly. 

"I  thank  you,  I  will  wait  here " 

"Step  inside!"  snapped  Barres. 

Startled  into  silence,  the  man  only  blinked  at  him. 
Under  the  other's  searching,  suspicious  gaze,  the  small, 
pig-like  eyes  were  now  shifting  uneasily ;  then,  as  Barres 
took  an  abrupt  step  forward,  the  man  shrank  away 
and  stammered  out  something  about  a  letter  which,  he 
was  to  deliver  to  Miss  Dunois  in  private. 

"You  say  you  have  a  letter  for  Miss  Dunois?"  de 
manded  Barres,  now  determined  to  get  hold  of  him. 

"I  am  instructed  to  giff  it  myself  to  her  in  private, 
all  alone " 

"Give  it  to  me!" 

"I  am  instruc " 

"Give  it  to  me,  I  tell  you! — and  come  inside  here! 
Do  you  hear  what  I'm  saying  to  you?" 

The  spectacled  man  lost  most  of  his  colour  as  Barres 
started  toward  him. 

"Excuse!"  he  faltered,  backing  off  down  the  cor 
ridor.  "I  giff  you  the  letter !"  And  he  hastily  thrust 
his  hand  into  the  side  pocket  of  his  coat.  But  it  was 


THE  WATCHER 


a  pistol  he  poked  under  the  other's  nose — a  shiny, 
lumpy  weapon,  clutched  most  unsteadily. 

"Hands  up  and  turn  me  once  around  your  back!" 
whispered  the  man  hoarsely.  "Quick ! — or  I  shoot 
you!" — as  the  other,  astounded,  merely  gazed  at  him. 
The  man  had  already  begun  to  back  away  again,  but 
as  Barres  moved  he  stopped  and  cursed  him: 

"Put  them  up  your  hands!"  snarled  the  spectacled 
man,  with  a  final  oath.  "Keep  your  distance  or  I  kill 
you!" 

Barres  heard  himself  saying,  in  a  voice  not  much 
like  his  own: 

"You  can't  do  this  to  me  and  get  away  with  it !  It's 
nonsense !  This  sort  of  thing  doesn't  go  in  New  York !" 

Suddenly  his  mind  grew  coldly,  terrible  clear: 

"No,  you  can't  get  away  with  it !"  he  concluded 
aloud,  in  the  calm,  natural  voice  of  conviction.  "Your 
stunt  is  scaring  women!  You  try  to  keep  clear  of 
men — you  dirty,  blackmailing  German  crook !  I've  got 
your  number!  You're  the  'Watcher'! — you  murder 
ous  rat !  You're  afraid  to  shoot !" 

It  was  plain  that  the  spectacled  man  had  not  dis 
counted  anything  of  this  sort — plain  now,  to  Barres, 
that  if,  indeed,  murder  actually  had  been  meant,  it  was 
not  his  own  murder  that  had  been  planned  with  that 
big,  blunt,  silver-plated  pistol,  now  wavering  wildly  be 
fore  his  eyes. 

"I  blow  your  face  off!"  whispered  the  stranger,  be 
ginning  to  back  away  again,  and  ghastly  pale. 

"Keep  out  of  thiss !  I  am  not  looking  for  you.  Get 
you  back ;  step  once  again  inside  that  door  away ! " 

But  Barres  had  already  jumped  for  him,  had  almost 
caught  him,  was  reaching  for  him — when  the  man 
hurled  the  pistol  straight  at  his  face.  The  terrific 
impact  of  the  heavy  weapon  striking  him  between  the 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


eyes  dazed  him;  he  stumbled  sideways,  colliding  with 
the  wall,  and  he  reeled  around  there  a  second. 

But  that  second's  leeway  was  enough  for  the  be 
spectacled  stranger.  He  turned  and  ran  like  a  deer. 
And  when  Barres  reached  the  staircase  the  white 
washed  hall  below  was  still  echoing  with  the  slam  of 
the  street  grille. 

Nevertheless,  he  hurried  down,  but  found  the  desk- 
chair  empty  and  Soane  nowhere  visible,  and  continued 
on  to  the  outer  door,  more  or  less  confused  by  the 
terrific  blow  on  the  head. 

Of  course  the  bespectacled  man  had  disappeared 
amid  the  noonday  foot-farers  now  crowding  both  side^ 
walks  east  and  west,  on  their  way  to  lunch. 

Barres  walked  slowly  back  to  the  desk,  still  dazed, 
but  now  thoroughly  enraged  and  painfully  conscious 
of  a  heavy  swelling  where  the  blow  had  fallen  on  his 
forehead. 

In  the  superintendent's  quarters  he  found  Soane, 
evidently  just  awakened  after  a  sodden  night  at  Gro- 
gan's,  trying  to  dress. 

Barres  said: 

"There  is  nobody  at  the  desk.  Either  you  or  Miss 
Kurtz  should  be  on  duty.  That  is  the  rule.  Now,  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  something:  If  I  ever  again  find  that 
desk  without  anybody  behind  it,  I  shall  go  to  the  own 
ers  of  this  building  and  tell  them  what  sort  of  superin 
tendent  you  are !  And  maybe  I'll  tell  the  police,  also !" 

"Arrah,  then,  Misther  Barres " 

"That's  all !"  said  Barres,  turning  on  his  heel.  "Any 
thing  more  from  you  and  you'll  find  yourself  in 
trouble!" 

And  he  went  up  stairs. 

The  lumpy  pistol  still  lay  there  in  the  corridor;  he 
picked  it  up  and  took  it  into  the  studio.  The  weapon 


THE  WATCHER 


was  fully  loaded.  It  seemed  to  be  of  some  foreign 
make — German  or  Austrian,  he  judged  by  the  mark 
ing  which  had  been  almost  erased,  deliberately  oblit 
erated,  it  appeared  to  him. 

He  placed  it  in  his  desk,  seated  himself,  explored  his 
bruises  gingerly  with  cautious  finger-tips,  concluded 
that  the  bridge  of  his  nose  was  not  broken,  then  threw 
himself  back  in  his  armchair  for  some  grim  and  con 
centrated  thinking. 


XVII 

A  CONFERENCE 

THE  elegantly  modulated  accents  of  Aristocrates, 
announcing  the  imminence  of  luncheon,  aroused 
Barres   from  disconcerted  but  wrathful  reflec 
tions. 

As  he  sat  up  and  tenderly  caressed  his  battered  head, 
Thessalie  and  Dulcie  came  slowly  into  the  studio  to 
gether,  their  arms  interlaced. 

Both  exclaimed  at  the  sight  of  the  young  man's 
swollen  face,  but  he  checked  their  sympathetic  enquiries 
drily: 

"Bumped  into  something.  It's  nothing.  How  are 
you,  Dulcie?  All  right  again?" 

She  nodded,  evidently  much  concerned  about  his  dis 
figured  forehead;  so  to  terminate  sympathetic  advice 
he  went  away  to  bathe  his  bruises  in  witch  hazel,  and 
presently  returned  smelling  strongly  of  that  time-hon 
oured  panacea,  and  with  a  saturated  handkerchief 
adorning  his  brow. 

At  the  same  time,  there  came  a  considerable  thump 
ing  and  bumping  from  the  corridor ;  the  bell  rang,  and 
Westmore  appeared  with  the  trunks — five  of  them. 
These  a  pair  of  brawny  expressmen  rolled  into  the 
studio  and  carried  thence  to  the  storeroom  which  sep 
arated  the  bedroom  and  bath  from  the  kitchen. 

"Any  trouble?"  enquired  Barres  of  Westmore,  when 
the  expressmen  had  gone. 

"None  at  all.  Nobody  looked  at  me  twice.  What's 
happened  to  your  noddle?" 

216 


A  CONFERENCE 


"Bumped  it.     Lunch  is  ready." 

Thessalie  came  over  to  him: 

"I  have  included  Dulcie  among  my  confidants,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice. 

"You  mean  you've  told  her " 

"Everything.     And  I  am  glad  I  did." 

Barres  was  silent;  Thessalie  passed  her  arm  around 
Dulcie's  waist ;  the  two  men  walked  behind  together. 

The  table  was  a  mass  of  flowers,  over  which  netted 
sunlight  played.  Three  cats  assisted — the  Prophet, 
always  dignified,  blinked  pleasantly  from  a  window 
ledge ;  the  blond  Houri,  beside  him,  purred  loudly.  Only 
Strindberg  was  impossible,  chasing  her  own  tail  under 
the  patient  feet  of  Aristocrates,  or  rolling  over  and 
over  beneath  the  table  in  a  mindless  assault  upon  her 
own  hind  toes. 

Seated  there  in  the  quiet  peace  and  security  of  the 
pleasant  room,  amid  familiar  things,  with  Aristocrates 
moving  noiselessly  about,  sunlight  lacing  wall  and  ceil 
ing,  and  the  air  aromatic  with  the  scent  of  brilliant 
flowers,  Barres  tried  in  vain  to  realise  that  murder 
could  throw  its  shadow  over  such  a  place — that  its  ter 
rible  menace  could  have  touched  his  threshold,  even  for 
an  instant. 

No,  it  was  impossible.  The  fellow  could  not  have 
intended  murder.  He  was  merely  a  blackmailer,  sud 
denly  detected  and  instantly  frightened,  pulling  a  gun 
in  a  panic,  and  even  then  failing  in  the  courage  to  shoot. 

It  enraged  Barres  to  even  think  about  it,  but  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  attach  any  darker  signifi 
cance  to  the  incident  than  just  that — a  blackmailer, 
ready  to  display  a  gun,  but  not  to  use  it,  had  come  to 
bully  a  woman;  had  found  himself  unexpectedly 
trapped,  and  had  behaved  according  to  his  kind. 

217 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Barres  had  meant  to  catch  him.  But  he  admitted 
to  himself  that  he  had  gone  about  it  very  unskilfully. 
This  added  disgust  to  his  smouldering  wrath,  but  he 
realised  that  he  ought  to  tell  the  story. 

And  after  the  rather  subdued  luncheon  was  ended, 
and  everybody  had  gone  out  to  the  studio,  he  did  tell 
it,  deliberately  including  Dulcie  in  his  audience,  because 
he  felt  that  she  also  ought  to  know. 

"And  this  is  the  present  state  of  affairs,"  he  con 
cluded,  lighting  a  cigarette  and  flinging  one  knee  across 
the  other,  " — that  my  friend,  Thessalie  Dunois,  who 
came  here  to  escape  the  outrageous  annoyance  of  a 
gang  of  blackmailers,  is  followed  immediately  and  men 
aced  with  further  insult  on  my  very  threshold. 

"This  thing  must  stop.  It's  going  to  be  stopped. 
And  I  suggest  that  we  discuss  the  matter  now  and  de 
cide  how  it  ought  to  be  handled." 

After  a  silence,  Westmore  said: 

"You  had  your  nerve,  Garry.  I'm  wondering  what 
I  might  have  done  under  the  muzzle  of  that  pistol." 

Dulcie's  grey  eyes  had  never  left  Barres.  He  en 
countered  her  gaze  now ;  smiled  at  its  anxious  intensity. 

"I  made  a  botch  of  it,  Sweetness,  didn't  I?"  he  said 
lightly.  And,  to  Westmore :  "The  moment  I  suspected 
him  he  was  aware  of  it.  Then,  when  I  tried  to  figure 
out  how  to  get  him  into  the  studio,  it  was  too  late. 
I  made  a  mess  of  it,  that's  all.  And  it's  too  bad, 
Thessa,  that  I  haven't  more  sense." 

She  gently  shook  her  head: 

"You  haven't  any  sense,  Garry.  That  man  might 
easily  have  killed  you,  in  spite  of  your  coolness  and 
courage " 

"No.     He  was  just  a  rat " 

"In  a  corner!     You  couldn't  tell  what  he'd  do " 

"Yes,  I  could.  He  didn't  shoot.  Moreover,  he 
218 


A  CONFERENCE 


legged  it,  which  was  exactly  what  I  was  certain  he 
meant  to  do.  Don't  worry  about  me,  Thessa;  if  I 
didn't  have  brains  enough  to  catch  him,  at  least  I  was 
clever  enough  to  know  it  was  safe  to  try."  He  laughed. 
"There's  nothing  of  the  hero  about  me ;  don't  think  it !" 

"I  think  that  Dulcie  and  I  know  what  to  call  your 
behaviour,"  she  said  quietly,  taking  the  silent  girl's 
hand  in  hers  and  resting  it  in  her  lap. 

"Sure;  it  was  bull-headed  pluck,"  growled  West- 
more.  "The  drop  is  the  drop,  Garry,  and  you're  no 
mind-reader." 

But  Barres  persisted  in  taking  it  humorously: 

"I  read  that  gentleman's  mind  correctly,  and  his 
character,  too."  Then,  to  Thessalie:  "You  say  you 
don't  recognise  him  from  my  description?" 

She  shook  her  head  thoughtfully. 

"Garry,"  said  Westmore  impatiently,  "if  we're  go 
ing  to  discuss  various  ways  of  putting  an  end  to  this 
business,  what  way  do  you  suggest?" 

Barres  lighted  another  cigarette: 

"I've  been  thinking.  And  I  haven't  a  notion  how  to 
go  about  it,  unless  we  turn  over  the  matter  to  the 
police.  But  Thessa  doesn't  wish  publicity,"  he  added, 
"so  whatever  is  to  be  done  we  must  do  by  ourselves." 

Thessalie  leaned  forward  from  her  seat  on  the  lounge 
by  Dulcie: 

"I  don't  ask  that  of  you,"  she  remonstrated  ear 
nestly.  "I  only  wanted  to  stay  here  for  a  little 
while " 

"You  shall  do  that  too,"  said  Westmore,  "but  this 
matter  seems  to  involve  something  more  than  annoy 
ance  and  danger  to  you.  Those  miserable  rascals  are 
Germans  and  they  are  carrying  on  their  impudent  in 
trigues,  regardless  of  American  laws  and  probably  to 
the  country's  detriment.  How  do  we  know  what  they 

219 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


are  about?  What  else  may  they  be  up  to?  It  seems 
to  me  that  somebody  had  better  investigate  their  ac 
tivities — this  one-eyed  man,  Freund — this  handy  gun 
man  in  spectacles — and  whoever  it  was  who  took  a  shot 
at  you  the  other  day " 

"Certainly,"  said  Barres,  "and  you  and  I  are  going 
to  investigate.  But  how?" 

"What  about  Grogan's?" 

"It's  a  German  joint  now,"  nodded  Barres.  "One 
of  us  might  drop  in  there  and  look  it  over.  Thessa, 
how  do  you  think  we  ought  to  go  about  this  affair?" 

Thessalie,  who  sat  on  the  sofa  with  Dulcie's  hand 
clasped  in  both  of  hers — a  new  intimacy  which  still 
surprised  and  pleasantly  perplexed  Barres — said  that 
she  could  not  see  that  there  was  anything  in  particular 
for  them  to  do,  but  that  she  herself  intended  to  cease 
living  alone  for  a  while  and  refrain  from  going  about 
town  unaccompanied. 

Then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  Barres  that  if  he  and 
Dulcie  went  to  Foreland  Farms,  Thessalie  should  be 
invited  also ;  otherwise,  she'd  be  alone  again,  except  for 
the  servants,  and  possibly  Westmore.  And  he  said  so. 

"This  won't  do,"  he  insisted.  "We  four  ought  to 
remain  in  touch  with  one  another  for  the  present.  If 
Dulcie  and  I  go  to  Foreland  Farms,  you  must  come,  too, 
Thessa;  and  you,  Jim,  ought  to  be  there,  too." 

Nobody  demurred;  Barres,  elated  at  the  prospect, 
gave  Thessalie  a  brief  sketch  of  his  family  and  their 
home. 

"There's  room  for  a  regiment  in  the  house,"  he 
added,  "and  you  will  feel  welcome  and  entirely  at  home. 
I'll  write  my  people  to-night,  if  it's  settled.  Is  it, 
Thessa?" 

"I'd  adore  it,  Garry.  I  haven't  been  in  the  country 
since  I  left  France." 

220 


A  CONFERENCE 


"And  you,  Jim?" 

"You  bet.  I  always  have  a  wonderful  time  at  Fore 
land." 

"Now,  this  is  splendid !"  exclaimed  Barres,  delighted. 
"If  you  disappear,  Thessa,  those  German  rats  may  be 
come  discouraged  and  give  up  hounding  you.  Anyway, 
you'll  have  a  quiet  six  weeks  and  a  complete  rest;  and 
by  that  time  Jim  and  I  ought  to  devise  some  method  of 
handling  these  vermin." 

"Nobody,"  said  Thessalie,  smiling,  "has  asked  Dul- 
cie's  opinion  as  to  how  this  matter  ought  to  be  han 
dled." 

Barres  turned  to  meet  Dulcie's  shy  gaze. 

"Tell  us  what  to  do,  Sweetness !"  he  said  gaily.  "It 
was  stupid  of  me  not  to  ask  for  your  views." 

For  a  few  moments  the  girl  remained  silent,  then, 
the  lovely  tint  deepening  in  her  cheeks,  she  suggested 
diffidently  that  the  people  who  were  annoying  Thessalie 
had  been  hired  to  do  it  by  others  more  easy  to  handle, 
if  discovered. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  Barres  struck 
his  palm  with  doubled  fist: 

"That,"  he  said  with  emphasis,  "is  the  right  way  to 
approach  this  business !  Hired  thugs  can  be  handled 
in  only  two  ways — beat  'em  up  or  call  in  the  police. 
And  we  can  do  neither. 

"But  the  men  higher  up — the  men  who  inspire  and 
hire  these  rats — they  can  be  dealt  with  in  other  ways. 
You're  right,  Dulcie!  You've  started  us  on  the  only 
proper  path !" 

Considerably  excited,  now,  as  vague  ideas  crowded 
in  upon  him,  he  sat  smiting  his  knees,  his  brows  knit 
in  concentrated  thought,  aware  that  they  were  on  the 
right  track,  but  that  the  track  was  but  a  blind  trail 
so  far. 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Dulcie  ventured  to  interrupt  his  frowning  cogitation : 

"People  of  position  and  influence  who  hire  men  to 
do  unworthy  things  are  cowards  at  heart.  To  dis 
cover  them  is  to  end  the  whole  matter,  I  think." 

"You're  absolutely  right,  Sweetness !  Wait !  I  be 
gin  to  see — to  see  things — see  something — interest 
ing " 

He  looked  up  at  Thessalie: 

"D'Eblis,  Ferez  Bey,  Von-der-Goltz  Pasha,  Excel- 
lenz,  Berlin — all  these  were  mixed  up  with  this  Ger 
man-American  banker,  Adolf  Gerhardt,  were  they 
not?" 

"It  was  Gerhardt's  money,  I  am  sure,  that  bought 
the  Mot  d'Ordre  from  d'Eblis  for  Ferez — that  is,  for 
Berlin,"  she  said. 

"Do  you  mean,"  asked  Westmore,  "the  New  York 
banker,  Adolf  Gerhardt,  of  Gerhardt,  Klein  & 
Schwa rtzmeyer,  who  has  that  big  show  place  at  North- 
brook?" 

Barres  smiled  at  him  significantly: 

"What  do  you  know  about  that,  Jim!  If  we  go  to 
Foreland  we're  certain  to  be  asked  to  the  Gerhardt's ! 
They're  part  of  the  Northbrook  set;  they're  received 
everywhere.  They  entertain  the  personnel  of  the  Ger 
man  and  Austrian  Embassies.  Probably  their  place, 
Hohenlinden,  is  a  hotbed  of  German  intrigue  and  prop 
aganda!  Thessa,  how  about  you?  Would  you  care 
to  risk  recognition  in  Gerhardt's  drawing-room,  and 
see  what  information  you  could  pick  up?" 

Thessalie's  cheeks  grew  bright  pink,  and  her  dark 
eyes  were  full  of  dancing  light: 

"Garry,  I'd  adore  it !  I  told  you  I  had  never  been 
a  spy.  And  that  is  absolutely  true.  But  if  you  think 
I  am  sufficiently  intelligent  to  do  anything  to  help  my 
country,  I'll  try.  And  I  don't  care  how  I  do  it,"  she 


A  CONFERENCE 


added,  with  her  sweet,  reckless  little  laugh,  and  squeezed 
Dulcie's  hand  tightly  between  her  fingers. 

"Do  you  suppose  Gerhardt  would  remember  you?" 
asked  Westmore. 

"I  don't  think  so.  I  don't  believe  anybody  would 
recollect  me.  If  anybody  there  ever  saw  Nihla  Quellen, 
it  wouldn't  worry  me,  because  Nihla  Quellen  is  merely 
a  memory  if  anything,  and  only  Ferez  and  d'Eblis  know 
I  am  alive  and  here " 

"And  their  hired  agents,"  added  Westmore. 

"Yes.  But  such  people  would  not  be  guests  of  Adolf 
Gerhardt  at  Northbrook." 

"Ferez  Bey  might  be  his  guest." 

"What  of  it !"  she  laughed.  "I  was  never  afraid  of 
Ferez — never!  He  is  a  jackal  always.  A  threatening 
gesture  and  he  flees !  No,  I  do  not  fear  Ferez  Bey, 
but  I  think  he  is  horribly  afraid  of  me.  ...  I  think, 
perhaps,  he  has  orders  to  do  me  very  serious  harm — 
and  dares  not.  No,  Ferez  Bey  comes  sniffing  around 
after  the  fight  is  over.  He  does  no  fighting,  not  Ferez ! 
He  slinks  outside  the  smoke.  When  it  clears  away  and 
night  comes  he  ventures  forth  to  feed  furtively  on  what 
is  left.  That  is  Ferez — my  Ferez  on  whom  I  would 
not  use  a  dog-whip — no ! — merely  a  slight  gesture— 
and  he  is  gone  like  a  swift  shadow  in  the  dark!" 

Fascinated  by  the  transformation  in  her,  the  other 
three  sat  gazing  at  Thessalie  in  silence.  Her  colour 
was  high,  her  dark  eyes  sparkled,  her  lips  glowed.  And 
the  superb  young  figure  so  celebrated  in  Europe,  so 
straight  and-  virile,  seemed  instinct  with  the  reckless 
gaity  and  courage  which  rang  out  in  her  full-throated 
laughter  as  she  ended  with  a  gesture  and  a  snap  of 
her  white  fingers. 

"For  my  country — for  France,  whose  generous  mind 
has  been  poisoned  against  me — I  would  do  anything — 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


anything !"  she  said.  "If  you  think,  Garry,  that  I  have 
wit  enough  to  balk  d'Eblis,  check  Ferez,  confuse  the 
plotters  in  Berlin — well,  then ! — I  shall  try.  If  you  say 
it  is  right,  then  I  shall  become  what  I  never  have  been 
— a  spy!" 

She  sat  for  a  moment  smiling  in  her  flushed  excite 
ment.  Nobody  spoke.  Then  her  expression  altered, 
subtlely,  and  her  dark  eyes  grew  pensive. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  wistfully,  "if  I  could  serve  my 
country  in  some  little  way,  France  might  believe  me 
loyal.  ...  1  have  sometimes  wished  I  might  have  a 
chance  to  prove  it.  There  is  nothing  I  would  not  risk 
if  only  France  would  come  to  believe  in  me.  .  .  .  But 
there  seemed  to  be  no  chance  for  me.  It  is  death  for 
me  to  go  there  now,  with  that  dossier  in  the  secret 
archives  and  a  Senator  of  France  to  swear  my  life 
away " 

"If  you  like,"  said  Westmore,  very  red  again,  "I'll 
go  into  the  business,  too,  and  help  you  nail  some  of 
these  Hun  plotters.  I've  nothing  better  to  do;  I'd  be 
delighted  to  help  you  land  a  Hun  or  two." 

"I'm  with  you  both,  heart  and  soul!"  said  Barres. 
"The  whole  country  is  rotten  with  Boche  intrigue. 
Who  knows  what  we  may  uncover  at  Northbrook?" 

Dulcie  rose  and  came  over  to  where  Barres  sat,  and 
he  reached  up  without  turning  around,  and  gave  her 
hand  a  friendly  little  squeeze. 

She  bent  over  beside  him: 

"Could  I  help?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"You  bet,  Sweetness !  Did  you  think  you  were  being 
left  out?"  And  he  drew  her  closer  and  passed  one  arm 
absently  around  her  as  he  began  speaking  again  to 
Westmore : 

"It  seems  to  me  that  we  ought  to  stumble  on  some 
thing  at  Northbrook  worth  following  up,  if  we  gt>  about 


'A  CONFERENCE 


it  circumspectly,  Jim — with  all  that  Austrian  and  Ger 
man  Embassy  gang1  coming  and  going  during  the  sum 
mer,  and  this  picturesque  fellow,  Murtagh  Skeel,  being 
lionised  by " 

Dulcie's  sudden  start  checked  him  and  he  looked  up 
at  her. 

"Murtagh  Skeel,  the  Irish  poet  and  patriot,"  he  re 
peated,  "who  wants  to  lead  a  Clan-na-Gael  raid  into 
Canada  or  head  a  death-battalion  to  free  Ireland. 
You've  read  about  him  in  the  papers,  Dulcie?" 

"Yes.  ...  I  want  to  talk  to  you  alone "     She 

blushed  and  dropped  a  confused  little  curtsey  to  Thes- 
salie:  "Would  you  please  pardon  my  rudeness " 

"You  darling!"  said  Thessalie,  blowing  her  a  swift, 
gay  kiss.  "Go  and  talk  to  your  best  friend  in  peace !" 

Barres  rose  and  walked  away  slowly  beside  Dulcie. 
They  stood  still  when  out  of  earshot.  She  said: 

"I  have  a  few  of  my  mother's  letters.  .  .  .  She  knew 
a  young  man  whose  name  was  Murtagh  Skeel.  .  .  .  He 
was  her  dear  friend.  But  only  in  secret.  Because  I 
think  her  father  and  mother  disliked  him.  ...  It 
would  seem  so  from  her  letters  and  his.  .  .  .  And  she 
was — in  love  with  him.  .  .  .  And  he  with  mother.  .  .  . 
Then — I  don't  know.  .  .  .  But  she  came  to  America 
with  father.  That  is  all  I  know.  Do  you  believe  he 
can  be  the  same  man?" 

"Murtagh  Skeel,"  repeated  Barres.  "It's  an  un 
usual  name.  Possibly  he  is  the  same  man  whom  your 
mother  knew.  I  should  say  he  might  have  been  about 
your  mother's  age,  Dulcie.  He  is  a  romantic  figure 
now — one  of  those  dreamy,  graceful,  impractical  pa 
triots — an  enthusiast  with  one  idea  and  that  an  im 
possible  one! — the  freedom  of  Ireland  wrenched  by 
force  from  the  traditional  tyrant,  England." 

He  thought  a  moment,  then: 
225 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Whatever  the  fault,  and  wherever  lies  the  blame 
for  Ireland's  unrest  to-day,  this  is  no  time  to  start  re 
bellion.  Who  strikes  at  England  now  strikes  at  all 
Freedom  in  the  world.  Who  conspires  against  Eng 
land  to-day  conspires  with  barbarism  against  civilisa 
tion. 

"My  outspoken  sympathy  of  yesterday  must  remain 
unspoken  to-day.  And  if  it  be  insisted  on,  then  it  will 
surely  change  and  become  hostility.  No,  Dulcie;  the 
line  of  cleavage  is  clean:  it  is  Light  against  Darkness, 
Right  against  Might,  Truth  against  Falsehood,  and 
Christ  against  Baal! 

"This  man,  Murtagh  Skeel,  is  a  dreamer,  a  mono 
maniac,  and  a  dangerous  fanatic,  for  all  his  winning 
and  cultivated  personality  and  the  personal  purity  of 
his  character.  ...  It  is  an  odd  coincidence  if  he  was 
once  your  mother's  friend — and  her  suitor,  too.'* 

Dulcie  stood  before  him,  her  head  a  trifle  lowered, 
listening  to  what  he  said.  When  he  ended,  she  looked 
up  at  him,  then  across  the  studio  where  Westmore  had 
taken  her  place  on  the  sofa  beside  Thessalie.  They 
both  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  a  conversation  which 
interested  them  immensely. 

Dulcie  hesitated,  then  ventured  to  take  possession 
of  Barres'  arm: 

"Could  you  and  I  sit  down  over  here  by  ourselves?" 
she  asked. 

He  smiled,  always  amused  by  her  increasing  confi 
dence  and  affection,  and  always  a  little  touched  by  it, 
so  plainly  she  revealed  herself,  so  quaintly — sometimes 
very  quietly  and  shyly,  sometimes  with  an  ardent  im 
pulse  too  swift  for  self-conscious  second  thoughts  which 
might  have  checked  her. 

So  they  seated  themselves  in  the  carved  compart 
ments  of  an  ancient  choir-stall  and  she  rested  one  el- 

226 


A  CONFERENCE 


bow  on  the  partition  between  them  and  set  her  rounded 
chin  in  her  palm. 

"You  pretty  thing,"  he  said  lightly. 

At  that  she  blushed  and  smiled  in  the  confused  way 
she  had  when  teased.  And  at  such  times  she  never 
looked  at  him — never  even  pretended  to  sustain  his 
laughing  gaze  or  brave  out  her  own  embarrassment. 

"I  won't  torment  you,  Sweetness,"  he  said.  "Only 
you  ought  not  to  let  me,  you  know.  It's  a  temptation 
to  make  you  blush ;  you  do  it  so  prettily." 

"Please "  she  said,  still  smiling  but  vividly  dis 
concerted  again. 

"There,  dear!  I  won't.  I'm  a  brute  and  a  bully. 
But  honestly,  you  ought  not  to  let  me." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  stop  you,"  she  admitted,  laugh 
ing.  "I  could  kill  myself  for  being  so  silly.  Why  is  it, 
do  you  suppose,  that  I  blu " 

She  checked  herself,  scarlet  now,  and  sat  motionless 
with  her  head  bent  over  her  clenched  palm,  and  her 
lip  bitten  till  it  quivered.  Perhaps  a  flash  of  sudden 
insight  had  answered  her  own  question  before  she  had 
even  finished  asking  it.  And  the  answer  had  left  her 
silent,  rigid,  as  though  not  daring  to  move.  But  her 
bitten  lip  trembled,  and  her  breath,  which  had  stopped, 
came  swiftly  now,  desperately  controlled.  But  there 
seemed  to  be  no  control  for  her  violent  little  heart, 
which  was  racing  away  and  setting  every  pulse  a  faster 
pace. 

Barres,  more  uneasy  than  amused,  now,  and  having 
before  this  very  unwillingly  suspected  Dulcie  of  an 
exaggerated  sentiment  concerning  him,  inspected  her 
furtively  and  sideways. 

"I  won't  tease  you  any  more,"  he  repeated.  "I'm 
sorry.  But  you  understand,  Sweetness;  it's  just  a 
friendly  tease — just  because  we're  such  good  friends." 

227 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Yes,"  she  nodded  breathlessly.  "Don't  notice  me, 
please.  I  don't  seem  to  know  how  to  behave  myself 
when  I'm  with  you " 

"What  nonsense,  Dulcie!  You're  a  wonderful  com 
rade.  We  have  bully  times  when  we're  together. 
Don't  we?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then,  for  the  love  of  Mike !  What's  a  little 
teasing  between  friends?  Buck  up,  Sweetness,  and 
don't  ever  let  me  upset  you  again." 

"No."  She  turned  and  looked  at  him,  laughed. 
But  there  was  a  wonderful  beauty  in  her  grey  eyes 
and  he  noticed  it. 

"You  little  kiddie,"  he  said,  "your  eyes  are  all  starry 
like  a  baby's !  You  are  not  growing  up  as  fast  as  you 
think  you  are!" 

She  laughed  again  deliciously: 

"How  wise  you  are,"  she  said. 

"Aha!     So  you're  joshing  me,  now!" 

"But  aren't  you  very,  very  wise?"  she  asked  de 
murely. 

"You  bet  I  am.     And  I'm  going  to  prove  it." 

"How,  please?" 

"Listen,  irreverent  youngster!  If  you  are  going  to 
Foreland  Farms  with  me,  you  will  require  various  spe 
cies  of  clothes  and  accessories." 

At  that  she  was  frankly  dismayed: 

"But  I  can't  afford " 

"Piffle!  I  advance  you  sufficient  salary.  Thessalie 
had  better  advise  you  in  your  shopping "  He  hesi 
tated,  then:  "You  and  Thessa  seem  to  have  become 
excellent  friends  rather  suddenly." 

"She  was  so  sweet  to  me,"  explained  Dulcie.  "I 
hadn't  cared  for  her  very  much — that  evening  of  the 
party — but  to-day  she  came  into  your  room,  where  I 


A  CONFERENCE 


was  lying  on  Jhe  bed,  and  she  stood  looking  at  me 
for  a  moment  and  then  she  said,  'Oh,  you  darling!* 
and  dropped  on  her  knees  and  drew  me  into  her  arms. 
.  .  .  Wasn't  that  a  curious  thing  to  happen?  I — I 
was  too  surprised  to  speak  for  a  minute ;  then  the  love 
liest  shiver  came  over  me  and  I — I  cuddled  up  close  to 
her — because  I  had  never  remembered  being  in  mother's 
arms — and  it  seemed  wonderful — I  had  wanted  it  so 
— dreamed  sometimes — and  awoke  and  cried  myself  to 
sleep  again.  .  .  .  She  was  so  sweet  to  me.  .  .  .  We 
talked.  .  .  .  She  told  me,  finally,  about  the  reason  of 
her  visit  to  you.  Then  she  told  me  about  herself.  .  .  . 
So  I  became  her  friend  very  quickly.  And  I  am  sure 
that  I  am  going  to  love  her  dearly.  .  .  .  And  when 
I  love" — she  looked  steadily  away  from  him — "I  would 
die  to  serve — my  friend." 

The  girl's  quiet  ardour,  her  simplicity  and  candour, 
attracted  and  interested  him.  Always  he  had  seemed 
to  be  aware,  in  her,  of  hidden  forces — of  something 
fresh  and  charmingly  impetuous  held  in  leash — of  con 
trolled  impulses,  restless,  uneasy,  bitted,  curbed,  and 
reined  in. 

Pride,  perhaps,  a  natural  reticence  in  the  opposite 
sex — perhaps  the  habit  of  control  in  a  girl  whose  child 
hood  had  had  no  outlet — some  of  these,  he  concluded, 
accounted  for  her  subdued  air,  her  restraint  from  dem 
onstration.  Save  for  the  impulsive  little  hand  on  his 
arm  at  times,  the  slightest  quiver  of  lip  and  voice, 
there  was  no  sign  of  the  high-strung,  fresh  young  force 
that  he  vaguely  divined  within  her. 

"Dulcie,"  he  said,  "how  much  do  you  know  about 
the  romance  of  your  mother?" 

She  lifted  her  grey  eyes  to  his: 

"What  romance?" 

"Why,  her  marriage." 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Wa?  that  a  romance?" 

"I  gather,  from  your  father,  that  your  mother  was 
very  much  above  him  in  station." 

"Yes.     He  was  a  gamekeeper  for  my  grandfather." 

"What  was  your  mother's  name?" 

"Eileen." 

"I  mean  her  family  name." 

"Fane." 

He  was  silent.  She  remained  thoughtful,  her  chin 
resting  between  two  fingers. 

"Once,"  she  murmured,  as  though  speaking  to  her 
self,  "when  my  father  was  intoxicated,  he  said  that 
Fane  is  my  name,  not  Soane.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  what 
he  meant?" 

"No.  .  .  .  His  name  is  Soane,  isn't  it?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Well,  what  do  you  suppose  he  meant,  if  he  meant 
anything?" 

"I  don't  quite  know." 

"He  is  your  father,  isn't  he?" 

She  shook  her  head  slowly: 

"Sometimes,  when  he  is  intoxicated,  he  says  that  he 
isn't.  And  once  he  added  that  my  name  is  not  Soane 
but  Fane." 

"Did  you  question  him?" 

"No.  He  only  cries  when  he  is  that  way.  .  .  .  Or 
talks  about  Ireland's  wrongs." 

"Ask  him  some  time." 

"I  have  asked  him  when  he  was  sober.  But  he  de 
nied  ever  saying  it." 

"Then  ask  him  when  he's  the  other  way.  I — well, 
to  be  frank,  Dulcie,  you  haven't  the  slightest  resem 
blance  to  your  father — not  the  slightest — not  in  any 
mental  or  physical  particular." 

"He  says  I'm  like  mother." 
230 


A  CONFERENCE 


"And  her  name  was  Eileen  Fane,"  murmured  Barres. 
"She  must  have  been  beautiful,  Dulcie." 

"She  was "  A  bright  blush  stained  her  face,  but 

this  time  she  looked  steadily  at  Barres  and  neither  of 
them  smiled. 

"She  was  in  love  with  Murtagh  Skeel,"  said  Dulcie. 
"I  wonder  why  she  did  not  marry  him." 

"You  say  her  family  objected." 

"Yes,  but  what  of  that,  if  she  loved  him?" 

"But  even  in  those  days  he  may  have  been  a  trouble 
maker  and  revolutionist " 

"Does  that  matter  if  a  girl  is  in  love?" 

In  Dulcie's  voice  there  was  again  that  breathless 
tone  through  which  something  rang  faintly — something 
curbed  back,  held  in  restraint. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  smiling,  "that  if  one  is  in  love 
nothing  else  matters." 

"Nothing  matters,"  she  said,  half  to  herself.  And 
he  looked  askance  at  her,  and  looked  again  with  in 
creasing  curiosity. 

Westmore  called  across  the  room: 

"Thessalie  and  I  are  going  shopping!  Any  objec 
tions?" 

A  sudden  and  totally  unexpected  dart  seemed  to 
penetrate  the  heart  region  of  Garret  Barres.  It  was 
jealousy  and  it  hurt. 

"No  objection  at  all,"  he  said,  wondering  how  the 
devil  Westmore  had  become  so  familiar  with  her  name 
in  such  a  very  brief  encounter. 

Thessalie  rose  and  came  over: 

"Dulcie,  will  you  come  with  us?"  she  asked  gaily. 

"That's  a  first  rate  idea,"  said  Barres,  cheering  up. 
"Dulcie,  tell  her  what  things  you  have  and  she'll  tell 
you  what  you  need  for  Foreland  Farms." 

"Indeed  I  will,"  cried  Thessalie.     "We'll  make  her 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


perfectly  adorable  in  a  most  economical  manner.  Shall 
we,  dear?" 

And  she  held  out  her  hand  to  Dulcie,  and,  smiling, 
turned  her  head  and  looked  across  the  room  at  West- 
more. 

Which  troubled  Barres  and  left  him  rather  silent 
there  in  the  studio  after  they  had  gone  away.  For 
he  had  rather  fancied  himself  as  the  romance  in  Thes- 
salie's  life,  and,  at  times,  was  inclined  to  sentimental 
ise  a  little  about  her. 

And  now  he  permitted  himself  to  wonder  how  much 
there  really  might  be  to  that  agreeable  sentiment  he 
entertained  for,  perhaps,  the  prettiest  girl  he  had  ever 
met  in  his  life,  and,  possibly,  the  most  delightful. 


XVIII 

THE    BABBLER 

THE  double  apartment  in  Dragon  Court,  swept 
by  such  vagrant  July  breezes  as  wandered  into 
the  heated  city,  had  become  lively  with  prepara 
tions  for  departure. 

Barres  fussed  about,  collecting  sketching  parapher 
nalia,  choosing  brushes,  colours,  canvases,  field  kits, 
and  costumes  from  his  accumulated  store,  and  boxing 
them  for  transportation  to  Foreland  Farms,  with  the 
languid  assistance  of  Aristocrates. 

Westmore  had  only  to  ship  a  modelling  stand,  a 
handful  of  sculptors'  tools,  and  a  ton  or  two  of  Plas- 
teline,  an  evil-smelling  composite  clay,  very  useful  to 
work  with. 

But  the  storm  centre  of  preparation  revolved  around 
Dulcie.  And  Thessalie,  enchanted  with  her  new  role 
as  adviser,  bargainer,  and  purchaser,  and  always  at 
taching  either  Westmore  or  Barres  to  her  skirts  when 
she  and  Dulcie  sallied  forth,  was  selecting  and  ac 
cumulating  a  charming  and  useful  little  impedimenta. 
For  the  young  girl  had  never  before  owned  a  single 
pretty  thing,  except  those  first  unpremeditated  gifts 
of  Barres',  and  her  happiness  in  these  expeditions  was 
alloyed  with  trepidation  at  Thessalie's  extravagance, 
and  deep  misgivings  concerning  her  ultimate  ability  to 
repay  out  of  the  salary  allowed  her  as  a  private  model. 

Intoxicated  by  ownership,  she  watched  Thessalie  and 
Selinda  laying  away  in  her  brand-new  trunk  the  lovely 

233 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


things  which  had  been  selected.  And  one  day,  thrilled 
but  bewildered,  she  went  into  the  studio,  where  Barres 
sat  opening  his  mail,  and  confessed  her  fear  that  only 
lifelong  devotion  in  his  service  could  ever  liquidate  her 
overwhelming  financial  obligations  to  him. 

He  had  begun  to  laugh  when  she  opened  the  sub 
ject: 

"Thessa  is  managing  it,"  he  said.  "It  looks  like  a 
lot  of  expense,  but  it  isn't.  Don't  worry  about  it, 
Sweetness." 

"I  do  worry " 

"Now,  what  a  ridiculous  thing  to  do!"  he  inter 
rupted.  "It's  merely  advanced  salary — your  own 
money.  I  told  you  to  blow  it;  I'm  responsible.  And 
I  shall  arrange  it  so  you  won't  notice  that  you  are  re 
paying  the  loan.  All  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  have 
a  good  time  about  it." 

"I  am  having  a  good  time — when  it  doesn't  scare 
me  to  spend  so  much  for " 

"Can't  you  trust  Thessa  and  me?" 

The  girl  dropped  to  her  knees  beside  his  chair  in 
a  swift  passion  of  gratitude: 

"Oh,  I  trust  you — I  do "  But  she  could  not 

utter  another  word,  and  only  pressed  her  face  against 
his  arm  in  the  tense  silence  of  emotions  which  were  too 
powerful  to  express,  too  deep  and  keen  to  comprehend 
or  to  endure. 

And  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  flushed,  confused,  turn 
ing  from  him  as  he  retained  one  hand  and  drew  her 
back: 

"Dear  child,"  he  said,  in  his  pleasant  voice,  "this 
is  really  a  very  little  thing  I  do  for  you,  compared  to 
the  help  you  have  given  me  by  hard,  unremitting,  un 
complaining  physical  labour  and  endurance.  There  is 
no  harder  work  than  holding  a  pose  for  painter  or 


THE  BABBLER 


sculptor — nothing  more  cruelly  fatiguing.  Add  to  that 
your  cheerfulness,  your  willingness,  your  quiet,  loyal, 
unobtrusive  companionship — and  the  freshness  and  in 
spiration  and  interest  ever  new  which  you  always  awake 
in  me — tell  me,  Sweetness,  are  you  really  in  my  debt, 
or  am  I  in  yours?" 

"I  am  in  yours.     You  made  me." 

"You  always  say  that.  It's  foolish.  You  made 
yourself,  Dulcie.  You  are  making  yourself  all  the 
while.  Why,  good  heavens ! — if  you  hadn't  had  it  in 
you,  somehow,  to  ignore  your  surroundings — take  the 
school  opportunities  offered  you — close  your  eyes  and 
ears  to  the  sights  and  sounds  and  habits  of  what  was 
supposed  to  be  your  home " 

He  checked  himself,  thinking  of  Soane,  and  his 
brogue,  and  his  ignorance  and  his  habits. 

"How  the  devil  you  escaped  it  all  I  can't  under 
stand,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Even  when  I  first 
knew  you,  there  was  nothing  resembling  your — your 
father  about  you — even  if  you  were  almost  in  rags !" 

"I  had  been  with  the  Sisters  until  I  went  to  high 
school,"  she  murmured.  "It  makes  a  difference  in  a 
child's  mind  what  is  said  and  thought  by  those  around 
her." 

"Of  course.  But,  Dulcie,  it  is  usually  the  unfortu 
nate  rule  that  the  lower  subtly  contaminates  the  higher, 
even  in  casual  association — that  the  weaker  gradu 
ally  undermines  the  stronger  until  it  sinks  to  lesser 
levels.  It  has  not  been  so  with  you.  Your  clear  mind 
remained  untarnished,  your  aspiration  uncontami- 
nated.  Somewhere  within  you  had  been  born  the  qual 
ity  of  recognition;  and  when  your  eyes  opened  on  bet 
ter  things  you  recognised  them  and  did  not  forget 
after  they  disappeared " 

Again  he  ceased  speaking,  aware,  suddenly,  that  for 
235 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


the  first  time  he  was  making  the  effort  to  analyse  this 
girl  for  his  own  information.  Heretofore,  he  had  ac 
cepted  her,  sometimes  curious,  sometimes  amused,  puz 
zled,  doubtful,  even  uneasy  as  her  mind  revealed  itself 
by  degrees  and  her  character  glimmered  through  in 
little  fitful  gleams  from  that  still  hidden  thing,  her 
self. 

He  began  to  speak  again,  before  he  knew  he  was 
speaking — indeed,  as  though  within  him  somewhere 
another  man  were  using  his  lips  and  voice  as  vehi 
cles: 

"You  know,  Dulcie,  it's  not  going  to  end — our  com 
panionship.  Your  real  life  is  all  ahead  of  you;  it's 
already  beginning — the  life  which  is  properly  yours  to 
shape  and  direct  and  make  the  most  of. 

"I  don't  know  what  kind  of  life  yours  is  going  to 
be;  I  know,  merely,  that  your  career  doesn't  lie  down 
stairs  in  the  superintendent's  lodgings.  And  this  life 
of  ours  here  in  the  studio  is  only  temporary,  only  a 
phase  of  your  development  toward  clearer  aims,  higher 
aspiration,  nobler  effort. 

"Tranquillity,  self-respect,  intelligent  responsibility, 
the  happiness  of  personal  independence  are  the  prizes : 
the  path  on  which  you  have  started  leads  to  the  only 
pleasure  man  has  ever  really  known — labour." 

He  looked  down  at  her  hand  lying  within  his  own, 
stroked  the  slender  fingers  thoughtfully,  noticing  the 
whiteness  and  fineness  of  them,  now  that  they  had 
rested  for  three  months  from  their  patient  martyrdom 
in  Soane's  service. 

"I'll  talk  to  my  mother  and  sister  about  it,"  he  con 
cluded.  "All  you  need  is  a  start  in  whatever  you're 
going  to  do  in  life.  And  you  bet  you're  going  to  get  it, 
Sweetness !" 

He  patted  her  hand,  laughed,  and  released  it.     She 
236 


THE  BABBLER 


couldn't  speak  just  then — she  tried  to  as  she  stood 
there,  head  averted  and  grey  eyes  brilliant  with  tears — 
but  she  could  not  utter  a  sound. 

Perhaps  aware  that  her  overcharged  heart  was  med 
dling  with  'her  voice,  he  merely  smiled  as  he  watched 
her  moving  slowly  back  to  Thessalie's  room,  where  the 
magic  trunk  was  being  packed.  Then  he  turned  to 
his  letters  again.  One  was  from  Ids  mother: 

"Garry  darling,  anybody  you  bring  to  Foreland  is  always 
welcome,  as  you  know.  Your  family  never  inquires  of 
its  members  concerning  any  guests  they  may  see  fit  to 
invite.  Bring  Miss  Dunois  and  Dulcie  Soane,  your  little 
model,  if  you  like.  There's  a  world  of  room  here;  nobody 
ever  interferes  with  anybody  else.  You  and  your  guests 
have  two  thousand  acres  to  roam  about  in,  ride  over,  fish 
over,  paint  over.  There's  plenty  for  everybody  to  do,  alone 
or  in  company. 

"Your  father  is  well.  He  looks  little  older  than  you. 
He's  fishing  most  of  the  time,  or  busy  reforesting  that 
sandy  region  beyond  the  Foreland  hills. 

"Your  sister  and  I  ride  as  usual  and  continue  to  improve 
the  breeds  of  the  various  domestic  creatures  in  which  we 
are  interested  and  you  are  not. 

"The  pheasants  are  doing  well  this  year,  and  we're  be 
ginning  to  turn  them  out  with  their  foster-mothers. 

"Your  father  wishes  me  to  tell  you  and  Jim  Westmore 
that  the  trout  fishing  is  still  fairly  good,  although  it  was 
better,  of  course,  in  May  and  June. 

"The  usual  parties  and  social  amenities  continue  in 
Northbrook.  Everybody  included  in  that  colony  seems  to 
have  arrived,  also  the  usual  influx  of  guests,  and  there  is 
much  entertaining,  tennis,  golf,  dances — the  invariable  card 
always  offered  there. 

"Claire  and  I  go  enough  to  keep  from  being  too  com 
pletely  forgotten.  Your  father  seldom  bothers  himself. 

"Also,  the  war  in  Europe  has  made  us,  at  Foreland,  dis 
inclined  to  frivolity.  Others,  too,  of  the  older  society  in 
Northbrook  are  more  subdued  than  usual,  devote  themselves 
to  quieter  pursuits.  And  those  among  us  who  have  sons  of 

237 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


military  age  are  prone  to  take  life  soberly  in  these  strange, 
oppressive  days  when  even  under  sunny  skies  in  this  land 
aloof  from  war,  all  are  conscious  of  the  tension,  the  vague 
foreboding,  the  brooding  stillness  that  sometimes  heralds 
storms. 

"But  all  north-country  folk  do  not  feel  this  way.  The 
Gerhardts,  for  example,  are  very  gay  with  a  house  full 
of  guests  and  overflowing  week-ends.  The  German  Em 
bassy,  as  always,  is  well  represented  at  Hohenlinden.  Your 
father  won't  go  there  at  all  now.  As  for  Claire  and  myself, 
we  await  political  ruptures  before  we  indulge  in  social 
ones.  And  it  doesn't  look  like  war,  now  that  Von  Tirpitz 
has  been  sent  to  Coventry. 

"This,  Garry  darling,  is  my  budget  of  news.  Bring 
your  guests  whenever  you  please.  You  wouldn't  bring  any 
body  you  oughtn't  to;  your  family  is  liberal,  informal, 
pleasantly  indifferent,  and  always  delightfully  busy  with 
its  individual  manias  and  fads;  so  come  as  soon  as  you 
please — sooner,  please — because,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
your  mother  would  like  to  see  you." 

The  letter  was  what  he  had  expected.  But,  as  al 
ways,  it  made  him  very  grateful. 

"Wonderful  mother  I  have,"  he  murmured,  opening 
another  letter  from  his  father: 


"DEAR  GARRET: 

"Why  the  devil  don't  you  come  up?  You've  missed  the 
cream  of  the  fishing.  There's  nothing  doing  in  the  streams 
now,  but  at  sunrise  and  toward  evening  they're  breaking 
nicely  in  the  lake. 

"I've  put  in  sixty  thousand  three-year  transplants  this 
year  on  that  sandy  stretch.  They  are  white,  Scotch  and 
Austrian.  Your  children  will  enjoy  them. 

"The  dogs  are  doing  well.  There's  one  youngster,  the 
litter-tyrant  of  Goldenrod's  brood,  who  ought  to  make  a 
field  winner.  But  there's  no  telling.  You  and  I'll  have  'em 
out  on  native  woodcock. 

"There  are  some  grouse,  but  we  ought  to  let  them  alone 
for  the  next  few  years.  As  for  the  pheasants,  they're  every- 

238 


THE  BABBLER 


where  now,  in  the  brake,  silver-grass,  and  weeds,  peeping, 
scurrying,  creeping — cunning  little  beggars  and  growing 
wild  as  quail. 

"The  horses  are  all  right.  The  crops  promise  well.  La 
bour  is  devilish  scarce,  and  unsatisfactory  when  induced 
to  accept  preposterous  wages.  What  we  need  are  coolies, 
if  these  lazy,  native  slackers  continue  to  handicap  the 
farmers  who  have  to  employ  them.  The  American  'hired 
man' !  He  makes  me  sick.  With  few  exceptions,  he  is 
incredibly  stupid,  ignorant,  unwilling,  lazy. 

"He's  sometimes  a  crook,  too;  he  takes  pay  for  what  he 
doesn't  do ;  he  steals  your  time ;  he  cares  absolutely  nothing 
about  your  interests  or  convenience;  he  will  leave  you 
stranded  in  harvest  time,  without  any  notice  at  all;  decent 
treatment  he  does  not  appreciate ;  he'll  go  without  a  warn 
ing  even,  leaving  your  horses  unfed,  your  cattle  unwatered, 
your  crops  rotting ! 

"He's  a  degenerate  relic  of  those  real  men  who  broke 
up  the  primaeval  wilderness.  He  is  the  reason  for  high 
prices,  the  cause  of  agricultural  and  industrial  distress, 
the  inert,  sodden,  fermenting,  indigestible  mass  in  the 
belly  of  the  body-politic ! 

"The  American  hired  man !  If  the  country  doesn't  spew 
him  up,  he'll  kill  it ! 

"Perhaps  you've  heard  me  before  on  this  subject,  Gar 
ret.  I'm  likely  to  air  my  views,  you  know. 

"Well,  my  son,  I  look  forward  to  your  arrival.  I  am  glad 
that  Westmore  is  coming  with  you.  As  for  your  other 
guests,  they  are  welcome,  of  course. 

"Your  father, 

"REGINALD  BARRES." 

He  laughed;  this  letter  so  perfectly  revealed  his 
father. 

"Dad  and  his  trout  and  his  birds  and  his  pines  and 
his  eternally  accursed  hired  help,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"Dad  and  his  monocle  and  his  immaculate  attire — the 
finest  man  who  ever  fussed !"  And  he  laughed  tenderly 
to  himself  as  he  broke  the  seal  of  his  sister's  brief 
note: 

239 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Garry  dear,  I've  been  so  busy  schooling  horses  and 
dancing  that  I've  had  no  time  for  letter  writing.  So  glad 
you're  coming  at  last.  Bring  along  any  good  novels  you 
see.  My  best  to  Jim.  Your  guests  can  be  well  mounted, 
if  they  ride.  Father  is  wild  because  there  are  more  foxes 
than  usual,  but  he's  promised  not  to  treat  them  as  vermin, 
and  the  Northbrook  pack  is  to  hunt  our  territory  this  sea 
son,  after  all.  Poor  Dad!  He  is  a  brick,  isn't  he?" 
"Affectionately, 


Barres  pocketed  his  sheaf  of  letters  and  began  to 
stroll  about  the  studio,  whistling  the  air  of  some  re 
cent  musical  atrocity. 

Westmore,  in  his  own  room,  composing  verses  —  a 
secret  vice  unsuspected  by  Barres  —  bade  him  "Shut 
up!"  —  the  whistling  no  doubt  ruining  his  metre. 

But  Barres,  with  politest  intentions,  forgot  himself 
so  many  times  that  the  other  man  locked  up  his  "Lines 
to  Thessalie  when  she  was  sewing  on  a  button  for  me," 
and  came  into  the  studio. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  inquired  naively. 

"Where's  who?"  demanded  Barres,  still  sensitive 
over  the  increasing  intimacy  of  this  headlong  young 
man  and  Thessalie  Dunois. 

"Thessa." 

"In  there  fussing  with  Dulcie's  togs.  Go  ahead  in, 
if  you  care  to." 

"Is  your  stuff  packed  up?" 

Barres  nodded  : 

"Is  yours?" 

"Most  of  it.     How  many  trunks  is  Thessa  taking?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  said  Barres,  with  a  trace  of  ir 
ritation.  "She's  at  liberty  to  take  as  many  as  she 
likes." 

Westmore  didn't  notice  the  irritation  ;  his  mind  was 
entirely  occupied  by  Thessalie  —  an  intellectual  condi- 

240 


THE  BABBLER 


tion  which  had  recently  become  rather  painfully  ap 
parent  to  Barres,  and,  doubtless,  equally  if  not  pain 
fully  apparent  to  Thessalie  herself. 

Probably  Dulcie  noticed  it,  too,  but  gave  no  sign, 
except  when  the  serious  grey  eyes  stole  toward  Barres 
at  times,  as  though  vaguely  apprehensive  that  he  might 
not  be  entirely  in  sympathy  with  Westmore's  enchanted 
state  of  mind. 

As  for  Thessalie,  though  Westmore's  nai've  and  in 
creasing  devotion  could  scarcely  escape  her  notice,  it 
was  utterly  impossible  to  tell  how  it  affected  her — 
whether,  indeed,  it  made  any  impression  at  all. 

For  there  seemed  to  be  no  difference  in  her  attitude 
toward  these  two  men;  it  was  plain  enough  that  she 
liked  them  both — that  she  believed  in  them  implicitly, 
was  happy  with  them,  tranquil  now  in  her  new  secur 
ity,  and  deeply  penetrated  with  gratitude  for  their 
kindness  to  her  in  her  hour  of  need. 

"Come  on  in,"  coaxed  Westmore,  linking  his  arm 
in  Barres',  and  counting  on  the  latter  to  give  him  coun 
tenance. 

The  arm  of  Barres  remained  rigid  and  unrespon 
sive,  but  his  legs  were  reluctantly  obliging  and  carried 
him  along  with  Westmore  to  what  had  been  his  own 
room  before  Thessalie  had  installed  herself  there. 

And  there  she  was  on  her  knees,  amid  a  riot  of  lin 
gerie  and  feminine  effects,  while  Dulcie  lovingly 
smoothed  out  and  folded  object  after  object  which 
Selinda  placed  between  layers  of  pale  blue  tissue  paper 
in  the  trunks. 

"How  are  things  going,  Thessa?"  inquired  West- 
more,  in  the  hearty,  cheerful  voice  of  the  intruder  who 
hopes  to  be  made  welcome.  But  her  attitude  was  dis 
couraging. 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"You  know  you  are  only  in  the  way,"  she  said. 
"Drive  him  out,  Dulcie!" 

Dulcie  laughed  and  looked  at  them  both  with  shyly 
friendly  eyes : 

"Is  my  trousseau  not  beautiful?"  she  asked.  "If 
you'll  step  outside  I'll  put  on  a  hat  and  gown  for 

you " 

•  "Oh,  Dulcie !"  protested  Thessalie,  "I  want  you  to 
dawn  upon  them,  and  a  dress  rehearsal  would  spoil 
it  all!" 

Westmore  tiptoed  around  amid  lovely,  frail  mounds 
of  fabrics,  until  ordered  to  an  empty  chair  and  for 
bidden  further  motion.  It  was  all  the  same  to  him,  so 
long  as  his  fascinated  gaze  could  rest  on  Thessalie. 

Which  further  annoyed  Barres,  and  he  backed  out 
and  walked  to  the  studio,  considerably  disturbed  in 
his  mind. 

"That  man,"  he  thought,  "is  making  an  ass  of  him 
self,  hanging  around  Thessa  like  a  half-witted  child. 
She  can't  help  noticing  it,  but  she  doesn't  seem  to  do 
anything  about  it.  I  don't  know  why  she  doesn't 

squelch  him — unless  she  likes  it "     But  the  idea 

was  so  unpleasant  to  Barres  that  he  instantty  aban 
doned  that  train  of  thought  and  prepared  for  himself 
a  comfortable  nest  on  the  lounge,  a  pipe,  and  an  un 
cut  volume  of  flimsy  summer  fiction. 

In  the  middle  of  these  somewhat  sullen  preparations, 
there  came  a  ring  at  his  studio  door.  Only  the  super 
intendent  or  strangers  rang  that  bell  as  a  rule,  and 
Barres  went  to  his  desk,  slipped  his  loaded  pistol  into 
his  coat  pocket,  then  walked  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

Soane  stood  there,  his  face  a  shiny-red  from  drink, 
his  legs  steady  enough.  As  usual  when  drunk,  he  was 
inclined  to  be  garrulous. 

"What's  the  matter?"  inquired  Barres  in  a  low  voice- 


THE  BABBLER 


"Wisha,  Misther  Barres,  sorr,  av  ye're  not  too  busy 
f'r  to " 

"S-h-h!  Don't  bellow  at  the  top  of  your  voice. 
Wait  a  moment!" 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  came  out  into  the  cor 
ridor,  closing  the  studio  door  behind  him  so  that  Dul- 
cie,  if  she  appeared  on  the  scene,  should  not  be  humili 
ated  before  the  others. 

Soane  began  again,  but  the  other  cut  him  short: 

"Don't  start  talking  here,"  he  said.  "Come  down 
to  your  own  quarters  if  you're  going  to  yell  your  head 
off!"  And  he  led  the  way,  impatiently,  down  the  stairs, 
past  the  desk  where  Miss  Kurtz  sat  stolid  and  mot 
tled-faced  as  a  lump  of  uncooked  sausage,  and  into 
Soane's  quarters. 

"Now,  you  listen  to  me  first!"  he  said  when  Soane 
had  entered  and  he  had  closed  the  door  behind  them. 
"You  keep  out  of  my  apartment  and  out  of  Dulcie's 
way,  too,  when  you're  drunk!  You're  not  going  to 
last  very  long  on  this  job;  I  can  see  that  plainly " 

"Faith,  "sorr,  you're  right !  I'm  fired  out  entirely 
this  blessed  minute!" 

"You've  been  discharged?" 

"I  have  that,  sorr!" 

"What  for?     Drunkenness?" 

"Th>  divil  do  I  know  phwat  for!  Wisha,  then,  Mis 
ther  Barres,  is  there  anny  harrm  av  a  man " 

"Yes,  there  is !  I  told  you  Grogan's  would  do  the 
trick  for  you.  Now  you're  discharged  without  a  ref 
erence,  I  suppose." 

Soane  smiled  airily: 

"Misther  Barres,  dear,  don't  lave  that  worrit  ye! 
I  want  no  riference  from  anny  landlord.  Sure,  land 
lords  is  tyrants,  too!  An'  phwat  the  divil  should  I 

be  wantin' " 

243 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"What  are  you  going  to  do  then?" 

Soane  hooked  both  thumbs  into  the  armholes  of  his 
vest,  and  swaggered  about  the  room: 

"God  bless  yer  kind  heart,  sorr,  I've  a-plenty  to  do 
and  more  for  good  measure !"  He  came  up  to  confront 
Barres,  and  laid  a  mysterious  finger  alongside  his 
over-red  nose  and  began  to  brag: 

"There's  thim  in  high  places  as  looks  afther  the 
likes  o'  me,  sorr.  There's  thim  that  thrusts  me,  thim 
that  depinds  on  me " 

"Have  you  another  job?" 

Soane's  scorn  was  superb: 

"A  job  is  ut?  Misther  Barres,  dear,  I  was  injuced 
fr  to  accept  a  position  of  grave  importance!" 

"Here  in  town?" 

"Somewhere  around  tin  thousand  miles  away  o* 
thereabouts,"  remarked  Soane  airily. 

"Do  you  mean  to  take  Dulcie  with  you?" 

"Musha,  then,  Misther  Barres,  'tis  why  I  come  to 
ye  above  f'r  to  ax  ye  will  ye  look  afther  Dulcie  av  I 
go  away  on  me  thravels?" 

"Yes,  I  will!  .  .  .  Where  are  you  going?  What  is 
all  this  stuff  you're  talking,  anyway " 

"Shtuff?  God  be  good  to  you,  it's  no  shtuff  I  talk, 
Misther  Barres!  Sure,  can't  a  decent  man  thravel 
f'r  to  see  the  wurruld  as  God  made  it  an'  no  harrm 

9 

careful  what  company  you  travel  in,"  said 
Barres,  looking  at  him  intently.  "You  have  been 
travelling  around  New  York  in  very  suspicious  com 
pany,  Soane.  I  know  more  about  it  than  you  think  I 
do.  And  it  wouldn't  surprise  me  if  you  have  a  run-in 
with  the  police  some  day." 

"The  po-lice,  sorr !  Arrah,  then,  me  fut  in  me  hand 
an'  me  tongue  in  me  cheek  to  the  likes  o'  thim!  An' 

244 


THE  BABBLER 


lave  them  go  hoppin'  afther  me  av  they  like.  The 
po-lice  is  ut!  Open  y'r  two  ears,  asthore,  an'  listen 
here! — there'll  be  nary  po-lice,  no  nor  constabulary, 
nor  excise,  nor  landlords  the  day  that  Ireland  flies  her 
flag  on  Dublin  Castle!  Sure,  that  will  be  the  grand 
sight,  with  all  the  rats  a-runnin',  an'  all  the  hurryin' 
and  scurry  in'  an'  the  futther  and  irfutther " 

"What  are  you  gabbling  about,  Soane?  What's  all 
this  boasting  about?" 

"Gabble  is  ut?  Is  it  boastin'  I  am?  Sorra  the  day ! 
An'  there  do  be  grand  gintlemen  and  gay  ladies  to-day 
that  shall  look  for  a  roof  an'  a  sup  o'  tay  this  day 
three  weeks,  when  th'  fut  o'  the  tyrant  is  lifted  from 
the  neck  of  Ireland  an'  the  landlords  is  runnin'  for 
their  lives " 

"I  thought  so !"  exclaimed  Barres,  disgusted. 

"An'  phwat  was  ye  thinkin',  sorr?" 

"That  your  German  friends  at  Grogan's  are  stirring 
up  trouble  among  the  Irish.  What's  all  this  nonsense, 
anyway?  Are  they  trying  to  persuade  you  to  follow 
the  old  Fenian  tactics  and  raid  Canada?  Or  is  it  an 
armed  expedition  to  the  Irish  coast?  You'd  better 
be  careful;  they'll  only  lock  you  up  here,  but  it's  a 
hanging  matter  over  there!" 

"Is  it  so?"  grinned  Soane. 

"It  surely  is." 

"Well,  then,  be  aisy,  Misther  Barres,  dear.  Av 
there's  hangin'  to  be  done  this  time,  'twill  not  be  thim 
as  wears  the  green  that  hangs !" 

Barres  slowly  shook  his  head: 

"This  is  German  work.  You're  sticking  your  neck 
into  the  noose." 

"Lave  the  noose  for  the  Clan-na-Gael  to  pull,  sorr, 
an'  'twill  shqueeze  no  Irish  neck !" 

"You're  a  fool,  Soane!  These  Germans  are  ex- 
245 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


ploiting  such  men  as  you.  Where's  your  common 
sense?  Can't  you  see  you're  playing  a  German  game? 
What  do  they  care  what  becomes  of  you  or  of  Ire 
land?  All  they  want  is  for  you  to  annoy  England  at 
any  cost.  And  the  cost  is  death!  Do  you  dream  for 
an  instant  that  you  and  your  friends  stand  a  ghost  of 
a  chance  if  you  are  crazy  enough  to  invade  Canada? 
Do  you  suppose  it  possible  to  land  an  expedition  on 
the  Irish  coast?" 

Soane  deliberately  winked  at  him.  Then  he  burst 
into  laughter  and  stood  rocking  there  on  heel  and  toe 
while  his  mirth  lasted. 

But  the  inevitable  Celtic  reaction  presently  sobered 
him  and  switched  him  into  a  sombre  recapitulation  of 
Erin's  wrongs.  And  this  tragic  inventory  brought  the 
inevitable  tears  in  time.  And  Woe  awoke  in  him  the 
memory  of  the  personal  and  pathetic. 

The  world  had  dealt  him  a  wretched  hand.  He  had 
sat  in  a  crooked  game  from  the  beginning.  The  cards 
had  been  stacked;  the  dice  were  cogged.  And  now 
he  meant  to  make  the  world  disgorge — pay  up  the  liv 
ing  that  it  owed  him. 

Barres  attempted  to  stem  the  flow  of  volubility,  but 
it  instantly  became  a  torrent. 

Nobody  knew  the  sorrows  of  Ireland  or  of  the  Irish. 
Tyranny  had  marked  them  for  its  own.  As  for  him 
self — once  a  broth  of  a  boy — he  had  been  torn  from 
the  sacred  precincts  of  his  native  shanty  and  con 
signed  to  a  loveless,  unhappy  marriage. 

Then  Barres  listened  without  interrupting.  But  the 
woes  of  Soane  became  vague  at  that  point.  Veiled 
references  to  being  "thrampled  on,"  to  "th'  big  house," 
to  "thim  that  was  high  an'  shtiff-necked,"  abounded  in 
an  unconnected  way.  There  was  something  about  be 
ing  a  servant  at  the  fireside  of  his  own  wife — a  foot- 

246 


THE  BABBLER 


stool  on  the  hearth  of  his  own  home — other  incompre 
hensible  plaints  and  mutterings,  many  scalding  tears, 
a  blub  or  two,  and  a  sort  of  whining  silence. 

Then  Barres  said: 

"Who  is  Dulcie,  Soane?" 

The  man,  seated  now  on  his  bed,  lifted  a  congested 
and  stupid  visage  as  though  he  had  not  comprehended. 

"Is  Dulcie  your  daughter?"  demanded  Barres. 

Soane's  blue  eyes  wandered  wildly  in  an  agony  of 
recollection : 

"Did  I  say  she  was  not,  sorr?"  he  faltered.  "Av 
I  told  ye  that,  may  the  saints  forgive  me " 

"Is  it  true?" 

"Ah,  what  was  I  afther  sayin',  Misther " 

"Never  mind  what  you  said  or  left  unsaid !  I  want 
to  ask  you  another  question.  Who  was  Eileen  Fane?" 

Soane  bounded  to  his  feet,  his  blue  eyes  ablaze: 

"Holy  Mother  o'  God!    What  have  I  said!" 

"Was  Eileen  Fane  your  wife?" 

"Did  I  say  her  blessed  name!"  shouted  Soane. 
"Sorra  the  sup  I  tuk  that  loosed  the  tongue  o'  me  this 
cursed  day !  'Twas  the  dommed  whishkey  inside  o'  me 
that  told  ye  that — not  me — not  Larry  Soane !  Wurra 
the  day  I  said  it !  An'  listen,  now,  f'r  the  love  o'  God ! 
Take  pride  to  yourself,  sorr,  for  all  the  goodness  ye 
done  to  Dulcie. 

"An'  av  I  go,  and  I  come  no  more  to  vex  her,  I 
thank  God  'tis  in  a  gintleman's  hands  the  child  do 

be "     He  choked;  his  marred  hands  dropped  by 

his  side,  and  he  stared  dumbly  at  Barres  for  a  mo 
ment.  Then : 

"Av  I  come  no  more,  will  ye  guard  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Will  ye  do  fair  by  her,  Misther  Barres?" 

"Yes." 

247 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Call  God  to  hear  ye  say  ut !" 

"So— help  me— God." 

Soane  dropped  on  to  the  bed  and  took  his  battered 
face  and  curly  head  between  his  hands 

"I'll  say  no  more,"  he  said  thickly.  "Nor  you  nor 
she  shall  know  no  more.  An'  av  ye  have  guessed  it  out, 
kape  it  locked  in.  I'll  say  no  more.  ...  I  was  good 
to  her — in  me  own  way.  But  ye  cud  see — anny  wan 
with  half  a  cock-eye  cud  see.  ...  I  was — honest — 
with  her  mother.  .  .  .  She  made  the  bargain.  ...  I 
tuk  me  pay  an'  held  me  tongue.  .  .  .  'Tis  whishkey 
talks,  not  me.  ...  I  tuk  me  pay  an'  I  kept  to  the 
bargain.  .  .  .  Wan  year.  .  .  .  Then — she  was  dead  of 
it — like  a  flower,  sorr — like  the  rose  ye  pull  an'  lave 
lyin'  in  the  sun.  .  .  .  Like  that,  sorr — in  a  year.  .  .  . 
An'  I  done  me  best  be  Dulcie.  ...  I  done  me  best. 
An'  held  to  the  bargain.  .  .  .  An*  done  me  best  be 
Dulcie — little  Dulcie — the  wee  baby  that  had  come  at 
last — her  baby — Dulcie  Fane!  .  .  ." 


XIX 

A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 

A    SINGLE  shaded  lamp  illuminated  the  studio, 
making  the  shapes  of  things  vague  where  out 
line  and  colour  were  lost  in  the  golden  dusk. 
Dulcie,   alone  at  the  piano,   accompanied  her  own 
voice    with    soft,    scarcely    heard    harmonies,    as    she 
hummed,  one  after  another,  old  melodies  she  had  learned 
from  the  Sisters  so  long  ago — "The  Harp,"  "Shandon 
Bells,"  "The  Exile,"  "Shannon  Water"— songs  of  that 
sort  and  period: 

"The  Bells  of  Shandon, 

Then  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  River  Lee." 

Thessalie  sat  by  the  open  window  and  Westmore 
squatted  at  her  feet  on  the  sill  of  the  little  balcony, 
doing,  as  usual,  all  the  talking  while  she  lay  deep  in 
her  arm-chair  waving  her  fan,  listening,  responding 
with  a  low-voiced  laugh  or  word  now  and  again. 

Dulcie  sang: 

"On  the  banks  of  the  Shannon 
When  Mary  was  nigh." 

From  that  she  changed  to  a  haunting,  poignant  lit 
tle  song;  and  Barres  looked  up  from  his  desk  under 
the  lamp.  Then  he  sealed  and  stamped  the  three  let- 

249 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


ters  which  he  had  written  to  his  Foreland  kinfolk,  and, 
holding  them  in  one  hand,  took  his  hat  from  the  table 
with  the  other,  as  though  preparing  to  rise.  Dulcie 
half  turned  her  head,  her  hands  still  idling  over  the 
shadowy  keys: 

"Are  you  going  out?" 

"Just  to  the  corner." 

"Why  don't  you  mail  your  letters  down  stairs?" 

"I'll  step  around  to  the  branch  post  office;  they'll 
go  quicker.  .  .  .  What  was  that  air  you  were  playing 
just  now?" 

"It  is  called  <Mea  Culpa.' " 

"Play  it  again." 

She  turned  to  the  keys,  recommenced  the  Celtic  air, 
and  sang  in  a  clear,  childish  voice: 

"Wake,  little  maid! 
Red  dawns  the  morn, 
The  last  stars  fade, 
The  day  is  born; 

Now  the  first  lark  wings  high  in  air, 
And  sings  the  Virgin's  praises  there! 

"I  am  afraid 
To  see  the  morn; 
I  lie  dismayed 
Beside  the  thorn. 

Gazing  at  God  with  frightened  eyes, 
Where  larks  are  singing  in  the  skies. 

ii 

"Why,  mourn,  dear  maid, 
Alone,  forlorn, 
White  and  afraid 
Beside  the  thorn, 

With  weeping  eyes  and  sobbing  breath 
And  fair  sweet  face  as  pale  as  death? 

250 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 

"For  love  repayed 
By  Mary's  scorn, 
I  weep,  betrayed 
By  one  unborn! 

Where  can  a  poor  lass  hide  her  head 
Till  day  be  done  and  she  be  dead  I" 

The  voice  and  playing  lingered  among  the  golden 
shadows,  hushed  to  a  whisper,  ceased. 

"Is  it  very  old,  that  sad  little  song?"  he  asked  at 
last. 

"My  mother  wrote  it.  ...  There  is  the  Mea  Cvlpa, 
still,  which  ends  it.  Shall  I  sing  it?" 

"Go  on,"  he  nodded. 

So  she  sang  the  Mea  Cvlpa: 

in 

"Winds  in  the  whinns 
Shall  kene  for  me — 

(For  Love  is  Love  though  men  be  men!) 
Till  all  my  sins 
Forgiven  be — 

(Maxima  culpa,  Lord.    Amen.) 

And  Mary's  grace  my  fault  shall  purge, 
While  skylarks  plead  my  cause  above, 
And  breezy  rivers  sing  my  dirge, 
Because  I  loved  and  died  of  Love. 

(/  love,  and  die  of  Love!) 
Amen." 

When  the  soft  cadence  of  the  last  notes  was  stilled, 
Dulcie  turned  once  more  toward  him  in  the  uncertain 
light. 

"It's  very  lovely,"  he  said,  "and  dreadfully  triste. 
The  air  alone  is  enough  to  break  your  heart." 

"My  mother,  when  she  wrote  it,  was  unhappy,  I 

imagine "  She  swung  slowly  around  to  face  the 

keys  again. 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Do  you  know  why  she  was  so  unhappy?" 

"She  fell  in  love,"  said  the  girl  over  her  shoulder. 
"And  it  saddened  her  life,  I  think." 

He  sat  motionless  for  a  while.  Dulcie  did  not  turn 
again.  Presently  he  rose  and  walked  slowly  out  and 
down  stairs,  carrying  his  letters  with  him. 

The  stolid,  mottled-faced  German  girl  was  on  duty 
at  the  desk,  and  she  favoured  him  with  a  sour  look, 
as  usual. 

"There  was  a  gen'l'man  to  see  you,"  she  mumbled. 

"When?" 

"Just  now.     I  didn't  know  you  was  in." 

"Well,  why  didn't  you  ring  up  the  apartment  and 
find  out?"  he  demanded. 

She  gave  him  a  sullen  look: 

"Here's  his  card,"  she  said,  shoving  it  across  the 
desk. 

Barres  picked  up  the  card.  "Georges  Renoux, 
Architect,"  he  read.  "Hotel  Astor"  was  pencilled  in 
the  corner. 

Barres  knit  his  brows,  trying  to  evoke  in  his  mem 
ory  a  physiognomy  to  fit  a  name  which  seemed  hazily 
familiar. 

"Did  the  gentleman  leave  any  message?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"Well,  please  don't  make  another  mistake  of  this 
kind,"  he  said. 

She  stared  at  him  like  a  sulky  sow,  her  little  eyes  red 
with  malice. 

"Where  is  Soane?"  he  inquired. 

"Out." 

"Where  did  he  go?" 

"I  didn't  ask  him,"  she  replied,  with  a  slight  sneer. 

"I  wish  to  see  him,"   continued  Barres  patiently. 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 

"Could  you  tell  me  whether  he  was  likely  to  go  to  Gro- 
gans?" 

"What's  Grogan's?" 

"Grogan's  Cafe  on  Third  Avenue — where  Soane 
hangs  out,"  he  managed  to  explain  calmly.  "You 
know  where  it  is.  You  have  called  him  up  there." 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  about  it,"  she  grunted,  resum 
ing  the  greasy  novel  she  had  been  reading. 

But  when  Barres,  now  thoroughly  incensed,  turned 
to  leave,  her  small,  pig-like  eyes  peeped  slyly  after 
him.  And  after  he  had  disappeared  through  the  cor 
ridor  into  the  street  she  hastily  unhooked  the  trans 
mitter  and  called  Grogan's. 

"This  is  Martha.  .  .  .  Martha  Kurtz.  Yes,  I  want 
Frank  Lehr.  ...  Is  that  you,  Frank?  .  .  .  The  ar 
tist,  Barres,  who  was  pumping  Soane  the  other  night, 
is  after  him  again.  I  told  you  how  I  listened  at  the 
door,  and  how  I  heard  that  Irish  souse  blabbing  and 
bragging.  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Sure!  .  .  .  Barres  was  at 
the  desk  just  now  inquiring  if  Soane  had  gone  to  Gro 
gan's.  .  .  .  You  bet!  .  .  .  Barres  is  leery  since  K17 
hit  him  with  a  gun.  Sure;  he's  stickin'  his  nose  into 
everything.  .  .  .  Look  out  for  him,  if  he  comes  around 
Grogan's  askin'  for  Soane.  .  .  .  And  say ;  there  was 
a  French  guy  here  callin'  on  Barres.  I  knew  he  was 
in,  but  I  said  he  was  out.  I  was  just  goin'  to  call  you 
when  Barres  came  down.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  got  his  name. 
.  .  .  Wait,  I  copied  it  out.  .  .  .  Here  it  is,  'Georges 
Renoux,  Architect.'  And  he  wrote  'Hotel  Astor*  in 
the  corner. 

"Yes,  he  said  tell  Barres  to  call  him  up.  Naw,  I 
didn't  give  him  the  message.  .  .  .  You  don't  say!  Is 
that  right?  He's  one  o*  them  nosey  Frenchman?  A 
captain?  .  .  .  Gee!  .  .  .  What's  his  lay?  ...  In 
New  York?  Well,  you  better  watch  out  then.  .  .  . 

253 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Sure,  I'll  ring  you  if  he  comes  back!  .  .  .  No,  there 
ain't  no  news.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  was  to  the  Astor  grille  last 
night,  and  I  talked  to  K17.  .  .  .  There  was  a  guy 
higher  up  there.  I  don't  know  who.  He  looked  like 
he  was  a  dark  complected  Jew.  .  .  .  Ferez  Bey?  .  .  . 
Gee!  .  .  .  You  expect  Skeel?  To-night?  Doin'  what? 
You  think  this  man  Renoux  is  watchin'  the  Clan-na- 
Gael?  Well,  you  better  tell  Soane  to  shut  his  mouth 
then. 

"Yes,  that  Dunois  girl  is  here  still.  It's  a  pity  K17 
lost  his  nerve.  .  .  .  Well,  you  better  look  out  for  her 
and  for  Barres,  too.  They're  as  thick  as  last  year 
honey ! 

"All  right,  I'll  let  you  know  anything.     Bye-bye." 

Barres,  walking  leisurely  up  the  street,  kept  watch 
ing  for  Soane  somewhere  along  the  block;  but  could 
see  nobody  in  the  darkness,  resembling  him. 

Outdoors  the  July  night  was  cooler;  young  girls, 
hatless,  in  summer  frocks,  gathered  on  stoops  or 
strolled  through  the  lamplit  dark.  Somewhere  a  piano 
sounded,  not  unpleasantly. 

In  the  branch  post  office  he  mailed  his  letters,  turned 
to  go  out,  and  caught  sight  of  Soane  passing  along  the 
sidewalk  just  outside. 

And  with  him  was  the  one-eyed  man,  Max  Freund — 
the  man  who,  perhaps,  had  robbed  Dulcie  of  half  the 
letter. 

His  first  emotion  was  sheer  anger,  and  it  started  him 
toward  the  door,  bent  on  swift  but  unconsidered  ven 
geance. 

But  before  this  impulse  culminated  in  his  collaring 
the  one-eyed  man,  sufficient  common  sense  came  to  the 
rescue.  A  row  meant  publicity,  and  an  inquiry  by 

254 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 

authority   would   certainly   involve   the  writer   of  the 
partly  stolen  letter — Thessalie  Dunois. 

Cool  and  collected  now,  but  mad  all  through,  Bar  res 
continued  to  follow  Soane  and  Freund,  dropping  back 
several  yards  to  keep  out  of  sight,  and  trying  to  make 
up  his  mind  what  he  ought  to  do.  v 

The  cross  street  was  fairly  well  lighted;  there 
seemed  to  be  plenty  of  evening  strollers  abroad,  so  that 
he  was  not  particularly  conspicuous  on  the  long  block 
between  Sixth  and  Fifth  Avenues. 

The  precious  pair,  arriving  at  Fifth  Avenue,  halted, 
blocked  by  the  normal  rush  of  automobiles,  unchecked 
now  by  a  traffic  policeman. 

So  Barres  halted,  too,  and  drew  back  alongside  a 
shop  window. 

And,  as  he  stopped  and  stepped  aside,  he  saw  a  man 
pause  on  the  sidewalk  across  the  street  and  move  back 
cautiously  into  the  shadow  of  a  fa9ade  opposite. 

There  was  nothing  significant  in  the  occurrence; 
Barres  merely  happened  to  notice  it ;  then  he  turned 
his  eyes  toward  Soane  and  Freund,  who  now  were  cross 
ing  Fifth  Avenue.  And  he  went  after  them,  with  no 
definite  idea  in  his  head. 

Soane  and  Freund  walked  on  eastward;  a  tramcar 
on  Madison  Avenue  stopped  them  once  more;  and,  as 
Barres  also  halted  behind  them  and  stepped  aside  into 
the  shadows,  there,  just  across  the  street,  he  saw  the 
same  man  again  halt,  retire,  and  stand  motionless  in 
a  recess  between  two  shop  windows. 

Barres  tried  to  keep  one  eye  on  him  and  the  other 
on  Soane  and  Freund.  The  two  latter  were  crossing 
Madison  Avenue ;  and  as  soon  as  they  had  crossed,  still 
headed  east,  the  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  street 
came  out  of  his  shadowy  recess  and  started  eastward, 
too. 

255 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Then  Barres  also  started,  but  now  he  was  watching 
the  man  across  the  street  as  well  as  keeping  Soane  and 
Freund  in  view — watching  the  former  solitary  individ 
ual  with  increasing  curiosity. 

Was  that  man  keeping  an  eye  on  him?  Was  he  fol 
lowing  Soane  and  Freund?  Was  he,  in  fact,  follow 
ing  anybody,  and  had  the  lively  imagination  of  Barres 
begun  to  make  something  out  of  nothing? 

At  Park  Avenue  Freund  and  Soane  paused,  not  ap 
parently  because  of  any  vehicular  congestion  imped 
ing  their  progress,  but  they  seemed  to  be  engaged  in 
vehement  conversation,  Soane's  excitable  tones  reach 
ing  Barres,  where  he  had  halted  again  beside  the  trades 
men's  gate  of  a  handsome  private  house. 

And  once  more,  across  the  street  the  solitary  figure 
also  halted  and  stood  unstirring  under  a  porte-cochere. 

Barres,  straining  his  eyes,  strove  to  make  out  details 
of  his  features  and  dress.  And  presently  he  concluded 
that,  though  the  man  did  turn  and  glance  in  his  direc 
tion  occasionally,  his  attention  was  principally  fixed 
on  Soane  and  Freund. 

His  movements,  too,  seemed  to  corroborate  this  idea, 
because  as  soon  as  they  started  across  Park  Avenue 
the  man  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  was  in  instant 
motion.  And  Barres,  now  intensely  curious,  walked 
eastward  once  more,  following  all  three. 

At  Lexington  Avenue  Soane  sheered  off  and,  de 
spite  the  clutch  of  Freund,  went  into  a  saloon.  Freund 
finally  followed. 

As  usual,  across  the  street  the  solitary  figure  had 
stopped.  Barres,  also  immobile,  kept  him  in  view. 
Evidently  he,  too,  was  awaiting  the  reappearance  of 
Soane  and  Freund. 

Suddenly  Barres  made  up  his  mind  to  have  a  good 
look  at  him.  He  walked  to  the  corner,  walked  over  to 

256 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 

the  south  side  of  the  street,  turned  west,  and  slowly 
sauntered  past  the  man,  looking  him  deliberately  in  the 
face. 

As  for  the  stranger,  far  from  shrinking  or  avoid 
ing  the  scrutiny,  he  on  his  part  betrayed  a  very  lively 
interest  in  the  physiognomy  of  Barres;  and  as  that 
young  man  approached  he  found  himself  scanned  by 
a  brilliant  and  alert  pair  of  eyes,  as  keen  as  a  fox- 
terrier's. 

In  frank  but  subtly  hostile  curiosity  their  glances 
met  and  crossed.  Then,  in  an  instant,  a  rather  odd 
smile  glimmered  in  the  stranger's  eyes,  twitched  at  his 
pleasant  mouth,  just  shaded  by  a  tiny  moustache: 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  low,  amused  voice, 
"you  will  not — as  they  say  in  New  York — butt  in.'* 

Barres,  astonished,  stood  quite  still.  The  young 
man  continued  to  regard  him  with  a  very  intelligent 
and  slightly  ironical  expression: 

"I  do  not  know,  of  course,"  he  said,  "whether  you 
are  of  the  city  police,  the  State  service,  the  Post  Of 
fice,  the  Department  of  Justice,  the  Federal  Secret 
Service" — he  shrugged  expressive  shoulders — "but  this 
I  do  know  very  well,  that  through  lack  of  proper  co 
ordination  in  the  branches  of  all  your  departments  of 
City,  State,  and  Federal  surety,  there  is  much  bun 
gling,  much  working  at  cross  purposes,  much  inter 
ference,  and  many  blunders. 

"Therefore,  I  beg  of  you  not  to  do  anything  fur 
ther  in  the  matter  which  very  evidently  occupies  you." 
And  he  bowed  and  glanced  across  at  the  saloon  into 
which  Soane  and  Freund  had  disappeared. 

Barres  was  thinking  hard.  He  drew  out  his  cigarette 
case,  lighted  a  cigarette,  came  to  his  conclusions : 

"You  are  watching  Freund  and  Soane?"  he  asked 
bluntly. 

257 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"And  you,  sir?  Are  you  observing  the  stars?"  in 
quired  the  young  man,  evidently  amused  at  something 
or  other  unperceived  by  Barres. 

The  latter  said,  frankly  and  pleasantly: 

"I  am  following  those  two  men.  It  is  evident  that 
you  are,  also.  So  may  I  ask,  have  you  any  idea  where 
they  are  going?" 

"I  can  guess,  perhaps." 

"To  Grogan's?" 

"Of  course." 

"Suppose,"  said  Barres  quietly,  "I  put  myself  un 
der  your  orders  and  go  along  with  you." 

The  strange  young  man  was  much  diverted: 

"In  your  kind  suggestion  there  appears  to  be  con 
cealed  a  germ  of  common  sense,"  he  said.  "In  which 
particular  service  are  you  employed,  sir?" 

"And  you?"  inquired  Barres,  smilingly. 

"I  imagine  you  may  have  guessed,"  said  the  young 
man,  evidently  greatly  amused  at  something  or  other. 

Sheer  intuition  prompted  Barres,  and  he  took  a 
chance. 

"Yes,  I  have  ventured  to  guess  that  you  are  an  In 
telligence  Officer  in  the  French  service,  and  secretly 
on  duty  in  the  United  States." 

The  young  man  winced  but  forced  a  very  bland 
smile. 

"My  compliments,  whether  your  guess  is  born  of 
certainty  or  not.  And  you,  sir?  May  I  inquire  your 
status?" 

"I'm  merely  a  civilian  with  a  season's  Plattsburg 
training  as  my  only  professional  experience.  I'm 
afraid  you  won't  believe  this,  but  it's  quite  true.  I'm 
not  in  either  Municipal,  State,  or  Federal  service. 
But  I  don't  believe  I  can  stand  this  Hun  business  much 
longer  without  enlisting  with  the  Canadians." 

258 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 

"Oh.  May  I  ask,  then,  why  you  follow  that  pair 
yonder?" 

"I'll  tell  you  why.  I  am  a  painter.  I  live  at 
Dragon  Court.  Soane,  an  Irishman,  is  superintendent 
of  the  building.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  German 
propagandists  have  been  teaching  him  disloyalty  un 
der  promise  of  aiding  Ireland  to  secure  political  in 
dependence. 

"Coming  out  of  the  branch  post  office  this  evening, 
where  I  had  taken  some  letters,  I  saw  Soane  and  that 
fellow,  Freund.  I  really  couldn't  tell  you  exactly 
what  my  object  was  in  following  them,  except  that  I 
itched  to  beat  up  the  German  and  refrained  because 
of  the  inevitable  notoriety  that  must  follow. 

"Perhaps  I  had  a  vague  idea  of  following  them  to 
Grogan's,  where  I  knew  they  were  bound,  just  to  look 
over  the  place  and  see  for  myself  what  that  German 
rendezvous  is  like. 

"Anyway,  what  kept  me  on  their  trail  was  noticing 
you;  and  your  behaviour  aroused  my  curiosity.  That 
is  the  entire  truth  concerning  myself  and  this  affair. 
And  if  you  believe  me,  and  if  you  think  I  can  be  of 
any  service  to  you,  take  me  along  with  you.  If  not, 
then  I  shall  certainly  not  interfere  with  whatever  you 
are  engaged  in." 

For  a  few  moments  the  young  Intelligence  Officer 
looked  intently  at  Barres,  the  same  amused,  inexplicable 
smile  on  his  face.  Then: 

"Your  name,"  he  said,  with  malicious  gaiety,  "is 
Garret  Barres." 

At  that  Barres  completely  lost  countenance,  but  the 
other  man  began  to  laugh : 

"Certainly  you  are  Garry  Barres,  a  painter,  a  cele 
brated  Beaux  Arts  man  of " 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Barres,  "you  are 
259 


THE  MOONLIT  WAT 


Renoux !  You  are  little  Georges  Renoux,  of  the  atelier 
Ledoux ! — on  the  architect's  side ! — you  are  that  man 
who  left  his  card  for  me  this  evening!  I've  seen  you 
often !  You  were  a  little  devil  of  a  nouveau ! — but  you 
were  always  the  centre  of  every  bit  of  mischief  in  the 
rue  Bonaparte!  You  put  the  whole  Quarter  en  cha- 
rette!  I  saw  you  do  it." 

"I  saw  you"  laughed  Renoux,  "on  one  notorious  oc 
casion,  teaching  jiu-jitsu  to  a  policeman!  Don't  talk 
to  me  about  my  escapades!" 

Cordially,  firmly,  in  grinning  silence,  they  shook 
hands.  And  for  a  moment  the  intervening  years  seemed 
to  melt  away;  the  golden  past  became  the  present; 
and  Renoux  even  thrilled  a  little  at  the  condescension 
of  Bar  res  in  shaking  hands  with  him — the  nouveau 
honoured  by  the  ancien! — the  reverence  never  entirely 
forgotten. 

"What  are  you,  anyway,  Renoux?"  asked  Barres, 
still  astonished  at  the  encounter,  but  immensely  in 
terested. 

"My  friend,  you  have  already  guessed.  I  am  Cap 
tain:  Military  Intelligence  Department.  You  know? 
There  are  no  longer  architects  or  butchers  or  bakers 
in  France,  only  soldiers.  And  of  those  soldiers  I  am 
a  very  humble  one." 

"On  secret  duty  here,"  nodded  Barres. 

"I  need  not  ask  an  old  Beaux  Arts  comrade  to  be 
discreet  and  loyal." 

"My  dear  fellow,  France  is  next  in  my  heart  after 
my  own  country.  Tell  me,  you  are  following  that 
Irishman,  Soane,  and  his  boche  friend,  Max  Freund, 
are  you  not?" 

"It  happens  to  be  as  you  say,"  admitted  Renoux, 
smilingly.  "A  job  for  a  'flic,'  is  it  not?" 

260 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  know  about  those  two  men? 
— what  I  suspect?" 

"I  should  be  very  glad "  But  at  that  moment 

Soane  came  out  of  the  saloon  across  the  way>  and 
Freund  followed. 

"May  I  come  with  you?"  whispered  Barres. 

"If  you  care  to.  Yes,  come,"  nodded  Renoux,  keep 
ing  his  clear,  intelligent  eyes  on  the  two  across  the 
street,  who  now  stood  under  a  lamp-post,  engaged  in 
some  sort  of  drunken  altercation. 

Renoux,  watching  them  all  the  while,  continued  in 
a  low  voice: 

"Remember,  Barres,  if  we  chance  to  meet  again  here 
in  America,  I  am  merely  Georges  Renoux,  an  archi 
tect  and  a  fellow  Beaux  Arts  man." 

"Certainly.  .  .  .  Look!  They're  starting  on,  those 
two!" 

"Come,"  whispered  Renoux. 

Soane,  unsteady  of  leg  and  talkative,  was  now  mak 
ing  for  Third  Avenue  beside  Freund,  who  had  taken 
him  by  the  arm,  in  hopes,  apparently,  of  steadying 
them  both. 

As  Renoux  and  Barres  followed,  the  latter  cau 
tiously  requested  any  instructions  which  Renoux  might 
think  fit  to  give. 

Renoux  said  in  his  cool,  agreeable  voice: 

"You  know  it's  rather  unusual  for  an  officer  to 
bother  personally  with  this  sort  of  thing.  But  my 
people — even  the  renegade  Germans  in  our  service — 
have  been  unable  to  obtain  necessary  information  for 
us  in  regard  to  Grogan's. 

"It  happened  this  afternoon  that  certain  informa 
tion  was  brought  to  me  which  suggested  that  I  my 
self  take  a  look  at  Grogan's.  And  that  is  what  I 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


was  going  to  do  when  I  saw  you  on  the  street,  care 
fully  stalking  two  well-known  suspects." 

They  both  laughed  cautiously. 

Grogan's  was  now  in  sight  on  the  corner,  its  cherry- 
wood  magnificence  and  its  bilious  imitation  of  stained 
glass  aglow  with  electricity.  And  into  its  "Family 
Entrance"  swaggered  Soane,  followed  by  the  lank  fig 
ure  of  Max  Freund. 

Renoux  and  Barres  had  halted  fifty  yards  away. 
Neither  spoke.  And  presently  came  to  them  a  short, 
dark,  powerfully  built  man,  who  strolled  up  casually, 
puffing  a  large,  rank  cigar. 

Renoux  named  him  to  Barres: 

"Emile  Souchez,  one  of  my  men."  He  added: 
"Anybody  gone  in  yet?" 

"Otto  Klein,  of  Gerhardt,  Klein  &  Schwartzmeyer 
went  in  an  hour  ago,"  replied  Souchez. 

"Oho,"  nodded  Renoux  softly.  "That  signifies 
something  really  interesting.  Who  else  went  in?" 

"Small  fry — Dave  Sendelbeck,  Louis  Hochstein, 
Terry  Madigan,  Dolan,  McBride,  Clancy — all  Clan- 
na-Gael  men." 

"Skeel?" 

"No.  He's  still  at  the  Astor.  Franz  Lehr  came 
out  about  half  an  hour  ago  and  took  a  taxi  west. 
Jacques  Alost  is  following  in  another." 

Renoux  thought  a  moment: 

"Lehr  has  probably  gone  to  see  Skeel  at  the  Hotel 
Astor,"  he  concluded.  "We're  going  to  have  our 
chance,  I  think." 

Then,  turning  to  Barres: 

"We've  decided  to  take  a  sport-chance  to-night.  We 
have  most  reliable  information  that  this  man  Lehr, 
who  How  owns  Grogan's,  will  carry  here  upon  his  per- 

262 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 

son  papers  of  importance  to  my  Government — and  to 
yours,  too,  Barres. 

"The  man  from  whom  he  shall  procure  these  papers 
is  an  Irish  gentleman  named  Murtagh  Skeel,  just  ar 
rived  from  Buffalo  and  stopping  overnight  at  the  Hotel 
Astor. 

"Lehr,  we  were  informed,  was  to  go  personally  and 
get  those  papers.  .  .  .  Do  you  really  wish  to  help 
us?" 

"Certainly." 

"Very  well.  I  expect  we  shall  have  what  you  call 
a  mix-up.  You  will  please,  therefore,  walk  into  Gro- 
gan's — not  by  the  family  entrance,  but  by  the  swing 
ing  doors  on  Lexington  Avenue.  Kindly  refresh  your 
self  there  with  some  Munich  beer;  also  eat  a  sandwich 
at  my  expense,  if  you  care  to.  Then  you  will  give 
yourself  the  pains  to  inquire  the  way  to  the  wash 
room.  And  there  you  will  possess  your  soul  in  ami 
able  patience  until  you  shall  hear  me  speak  your  name 
in  a  very  quiet,  polite  tone." 

Barres,  recognising  the  familiar  mock  seriousness 
of  student  days  in  Paris,  began  to  smile.  Renoux 
frowned  and  continued  his  instructions : 

"When  you  hear  me  politely  pronounce  your  name, 
mon  vieux,  then  you  shall  precipitate  yourself  valiantly 
to  the  aid  of  Monsieur  Souchez  and  myself — and  per 
haps  Monsieur  Alost — and  help  us  to  hold,  gag  and 
search  the  somewhat  violent  German  animal  whom  we 
corner  inside  the  family  entrance  of  Herr  Grogan!" 

Barres  had  difficulty  in  restraining  his  laughter. 
Renoux  was  very  serious,  with  the  delightful  mock 
gravity  of  a  witty  and  perfectly  fearless  Frenchman. 

"Lehr?"  inquired  Barres,  still  laughing. 

"That  is  the  animal  under  discussion.  There  will  be 

a  taxicab  awaiting  us "  He  turned  to  Souchez: 

263 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Dis,  done,  Emile,  faut  employer  ton  coup  du  Pere 
Fra^ois  pour  nous  assurer  de  cet  animal  la." 

"B'en  sure,"  nodded  Souchez,  fishing  furtively  in  the 
side  pocket  of  his  coat  and  displaying  the  corner  of 
a  red  silk  handkerchief.  He  stuffed  it  into  his  pocket 
again;  Renoux  smiled  carelessly  at  Barres. 

"Mon  vieux,"  he  said,  "I  hope  it  will  be  like  a  good 
fight  in  the  Quarter — what  with  all  those  Irish  in  there. 
You  desire  to  get  your  head  broken?" 

"You  bet  I  do,  Renoux!" 

"Bien!  So  now,  if  you  are  quite  ready?"  he  sug 
gested.  "Merci,  monsieur,  et  a  bientot!"  He  bowed 
profoundly. 

Barres,  still  laughing,  walked  to  Lexington  Avenue, 
crossed  northward,  and  entered  the  swinging  doors  of 
Grogan's,  perfectly  enchanted  to  have  his  finger  in  the 
pie  at  last,  and  aching  for  an  old-fashioned  Latin 
Quarter  row,  the  pleasures  of  which  he  had  not  known 
for  several  too  respectable  years. 


GROGAN  S 

THE  material  attraction  of  Grogan's  was  prin 
cipally  German  beer;  the  aesthetic  appeal  of 
the  place  was  also  characteristically  Teutonic 
and  consisted  of  peculiarly  offensive  decorations,  in 
cluding  much  red  cherry,  much  imitation  stained  glass, 
many  sprawling  brass  fixtures,  and  many  electric  lights. 
Only  former  inmates  of  the  Fatherland  could  have 
conceived  and  executed  the  embellishments  of  Grogan's. 

There  was  a  palatial  bar,  behind  which  fat,  white- 
jacketed  Teutons  served  slopping  steins  of  beer  upon 
a  perforated  brass  surface.  There  was  a  centre  table, 
piled  with  those  barbarous  messes  known  to  the  un- 
discriminating  Hun  as  "delicatessen" — raw  fish,  sour 
fish,  smoked  fish,  flabby  portions  of  defunct  pig  in  va 
rious  guises — all  naturally  nauseating  to  the  white 
man's  olfactories  and  palate,  and  all  equally  relished 
by  the  beer-swilling  boche. 

A  bartender  with  Pekinese  and  apoplectic  eyes  and 
the  scorbutic  facial  symptoms  of  a  Strassburg  liver, 
took  the  order  from  Barres  and  set  before  him  a  frosty 
glass  of  Pilsner,  incidentally  drenching  the  bar  at  the 
same  time  with  swipes,  which  he  thriftily  scraped 
through  the  perforated  brass  strainer  into  a  slop- 
bucket  underneath. 

Being  a  stranger  there,  Barres  was  furtively  scruti 
nised  at  first,  but  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  particu 
larly  suspicious  about  a  young  man  who  stopped  in  for 

265 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


a  glass  of  Pilsner  on  a  July  night,  and  nobody  paid 
him  any  further  attention. 

Besides,  two  United  States  Secret  Service  men  had 
just  gone  out,  followed,  as  usual,  by  one  Johnny  Klein; 
and  the  Germans  at  the  tables  at  the  bar,  and  behind 
the  bar  were  still  sneeringly  commenting  on  the  epi 
sode — now  a  familiar  one  and  of  nightly  occurrence. 

So  only  very  casual  attention  was  paid  to  Bar  res  and 
his  Pilsner  and  his  rye-bread  and  sardine  sandwich, 
which  he  took  over  to  a  vacant  table  to  desiccate  and 
discuss  at  his  leisure. 

People  came  and  went ;  conversation  in  Hunnish  gut 
turals  became  general;  soiled  evening  newspapers  were 
read,  raw  fish  seized  in  fat  red  fingers  and  suckingly 
masticated;  also,  skat  and  pinochle  were  resumed  with 
unwiped  hands,  and  there  was  loud  slapping  of  cards 
on  polished  table  tops,  and  many  porcine  noises. 

Barres  finished  his  Pilsner,  side-stepped  the  sand 
wich,  rose,  asked  a  bartender  for  the  wash-room,  and 
leisurely  followed  the  direction  given. 

There  was  nobody  in  there.  He  had,  for  company, 
a  mouse,  a  soiled  towel  on  a  roller,  and  the  remains 
of  some  unattractive  soap.  He  lighted  a  cigarette, 
surveyed  himself  in  the  looking  glass,  cast  a  friendly 
glance  at  the  mouse,  and  stood  waiting,  flexing  his 
biceps  muscles  with  a  smile  of  anticipated  pleasure  in 
renewing  the  use  of  them  after  such  a  very  long  period 
wasted  in  the  peaceful  pursuit  of  art. 

For  he  was  still  a  boy  at  heart.  All  creative  minds 
retain  something  of  those  care-free,  irresponsible  years 
as  long  as  the  creative  talent  lasts.  As  it  fails, 
worldly  caution  creeps  in  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  to 
steal  the  spontaneous  pleasures  of  the  past  and  leave 
in  their  places  only  the  old  galoshes  of  prudence  and 
the  finger-prints  of  dull  routine. 

266 


GROGAN'S 


Barres  stood  by  the  open  door  of  the  wash-room, 
listening.  The  corridor  which  passed  it  led  on  into 
another  corridor  running  at  right  angles.  This  was 
the  Family  Entrance. 

Now,  as  he  waited  there,  he  heard  the  street  door 
open,  and  instantly  the  deadened  shock  of  a  rush  and 
struggle. 

As  he  started  toward  the  Family  Entrance,  strain 
ing  his  ears  for  the  expected  summons,  a  man  in  flight 
turned  the  corner  into  his  corridor  so  abruptly  that 
he  had  him  by  the  throat  even  before  he  recognised  in 
him  the  man  with  the  thick  eye-glasses  who  had  hit 
him  between  the  eyes  with  a  pistol — the  "Watcher"  of 
Dragon  Court! 

With  a  swift  sigh  of  gratitude  to  Chance,  Barres 
folded  the  fleeing  Watcher  to  his  bosom  and  began 
the  business  he  had  to  transact  with  him — an  account 
too  long  overdue. 

The  Watcher  fought  like  a  wildcat,  but  in  silence 
— fought  madly ,  using  both  fists,  feet,  baring  his  teeth, 
too,  with  frantic  attempts  to  use  them.  But  Barres 
gave  him  no  opportunity  to  kick,  bite,  or  to  pull  out 
any  weapon;  he  battered  the  Watcher  right  and  left, 
swinging  on  him  like  lightning,  and  his  blows  drummed 
on  him  like  the  tattoo  of  fists  on  a  punching  bag  until 
one  stinging  crack  sent  the  Watcher's  head  snapping 
back  with  a  jerk,  and  a  terrific  jolt  knocked  him  as 
clean  and  as  flat  as  a  dead  carp. 

There  were  papers  in  his  coat,  also  a  knuckle-duster, 
a  big  clasp-knife,  and  an  automatic  pistol.  And  Barres 
took  them  all,  stuffed  them  into  his  own  pockets,  and, 
dragging  his  still  dormant  but  twitching  victim  by  the 
collar,  as  a  cat  proudly  lugs  a  heavy  rat,  he  started 
for  the  Family  Entrance,  where  Donnybrook  had  now 
broken  loose. 

267 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


But  the  silence  of  the  terrific  struggle  in  that  nar 
row  entry,  the  absence  of  all  yelling,  was  significant. 
No  Irish  whoops,  no  Teutonic  din  of  combat  shattered 
the  stillness  of  that  dim  corridor — only  the  deadened 
sounds  of  blows  and  shuffling  of  frantic  feet.  It  was 
very  evident  that  nobody  involved  desired  to  be  inter 
rupted  by  the  police,  or  call  attention  to  the  location 
of  the  battle  field. 

Renoux,  Souchez,  and  a  third  companion  were  in 
intimate  and  desperate  conflict  with  half  a  dozen  other 
men — dim,  furious  figures  fighting  there  under  the  flick 
ering  gas  jet  from  which  the  dirty  globe  had  been 
knocked  into  fragments. 

Into  this  dusty  maelstrom  of  waving  arms  and  legs 
went  Barres — first  dropping  his  now  inert  prey — and 
began  to  hit  out  enthusiastically  right  and  left,  at  the 
nearest  hostile  countenance  visible. 

His  was  a  flank  attack  and  totally  unexpected  by  the 
the  attackees ;  and  the  diversion  gave  Renoux  time  to 
seize  a  muscular,  struggling  opponent,  hold  him  squirm 
ing  while  Souchez  passed  his  handkerchief  over  his 
throat  and  the  third  man  turned  his  pockets  inside 
out. 

Then  Renoux  called  breathlessly  to  Barres: 

"All  right,  mon  vieux!  Face  to  the  rear  front! 
March!" 

For  a  moment  they  stiffened  to  face  a  battering  rush 
from  the  stairs.  Suddenly  a  pistol  spoke,  and  an 
Irish  voice  burst  out: 

"Whist,  ye  domm  fool!  G'wan  wid  yer  fishtin'  an' 
can  th'  goon-play !" 

There  came  a  splintering  crash  as  the  rickety  ban 
isters  gave  way  and  several  Teutonic  and  Hibernian 
warriors  fell  in  a  furious  heap,  blocking  the  entry  with 
an  unpremeditated  obstacle. 

268 


GROGAN'S 


Instantly  Souchez,  Barres  and  the  other  man  backed 
out  into  the  street,  followed  nimbly  by  Renoux  and 
his  plunder. 

Already  a  typical  Third  Avenue  crowd  was  gather 
ing,  though  the  ominous  glimmer  of  a  policeman's  but 
tons  had  not  yet  caught  the  lamplight  from  the  street 
corner. 

Then  the  door  of  Grogan's  burst  open  and  an  em 
battled  Irishman  appeared.  But  at  first  glance  the 
hopelessness  of  the  situation  presented  itself  to  him; 
a  taxi  loaded  with  French  and  American  franc-tireurs 
was  already  honking  triumphantly  away  westward ;  an 
excited  and  rapidly  increasing  throng  pressed  around 
the  Family  Entrance;  also,  the  distant  glitter  of  a 
policeman's  shield  and  buttons  now  extinguished  all 
hope  of  pursuit. 

Soane  glared  at  the  crowd  out  of  enraged  and  blood 
shot  eyes: 

"G'wan  home,  ye  bunch  of  bums!"  he  said  thickly, 
and  slammed  the  door  to  the  Family  Entrance  of  Gro- 
gan's  notorious  cafe. 

At  4$d  Street  and  Madison  Avenue  the  taxi  stopped 
and  Souchez  and  Alost  got  out  and  went  rapidly  across 
the  street  toward  the  Grand  Central  depot.  Then  the 
taxi  proceeded  west,  north  again,  then  once  more  west. 

Renoux,  busy  with  a  bleeding  nose,  remarked  care 
lessly  that  Souchez  and  Alost  were  taking  a  train  and 
were  in  a  hurry,  and  that  he  himself  was  going  back 
to  the  Astor. 

"You  do  not  mind  coming  with  me,  Barres?"  he 
added.  "In  my  rooms  we  can  have  a  bite  and  a  glass 
together,  and  then  we  can  brush  up.  That  was  a  nice 
little  fight,  was  it  not,  mon  ami?" 

"Fine,"  said  Barres  with  satisfaction. 

"Quite  like  the  old  and  happy  days,"  mused  Renoux, 
269  ' 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


surveying  wilted  collar  and  rumpled  tie  of  his  comrade. 
"You  came  off  well ;  you  have  merely  a  bruised  cheek." 
His  eyes  began  to  sparkle  and  he  laughed:  "Do  you 
remember  that  May  evening  when  your  very  quarrel 
some  atelier  barricaded  the  Cafe  de  la  Source  and  for 
bade  us  to  enter — and  my  atelier  marched  down  the 
BouP  Mich'  with  its  Kazoo  band  playing  our  atelier 
march,  determined  to  take  your  cafe  by  assault?  Oh, 
my !  What  a  delightful  fight  that  was  !" 

"Your  crazy  comrades  stuffed  me  into  the  fountain 
among  the  goldfish.  I  thought  I'd  drown,"  said 
Barres,  laughing. 

"I  know,  but  your  atelier  gained  a  great  victory 
that  night,  and  you  came  over  to  Miiller's  with  your 
Kazoo  band  playing  the  Fireman's  March,  and  you  car 
ried  away  our  palms  and  bay-trees  in  their  green  tubs, 
and  you  threw  them  over  the  Pont-au-Change  into  the 
Seine! " 

They  were  laughing  like  a  pair  of  schoolboys  now, 
quite  convulsed  and  holding  to  each  other. 

"Do  you  remember,"  gasped  Barres,  "that  girl  who 
danced  the  Carmagnole  on  the  Quay?" 

"Yvonne  Tete-de-Linotte !" 

"And  the  British  giant  from  Julien's,  who  threw 
everybody  out  of  the  Cafe  Montparnasse  and  invited 
the  Quarter  in  to  a  free  banquet?" 

"McNeil!" 

"What  ever  became  of  that  pretty  girl,  Doucette  de 
Valmy?" 

"Oh,  it  was  she  who  cheered  on  your  atelier  to  the 
assault  on  Miillers! " 

Laughter  stifled  them. 

"What  crazy  creatures  we  all  were,"  said  Renoux, 
staunching  the  last  crimson  drops  oozing  from  his  nose. 
Then,  more  soberly :  "We  French  have  a  grimmer  affair 

270 


GROGAN'S 


over  there  than  the  joyous  rows  of  the  Latin  Quarter. 
I'm  sorry  now  that  we  didn't  throw  every  waiter  in 
Miiller's  after  the  bay-trees.  There  would  have  been 
so  many  fewer  spies  to  betray  France." 

The  taxi  stopped  at  the  44th  Street  entrance  to  the 
Astor.  They  descended,  Renoux  leading,  walked 
through  the  corridor  to  Peacock  Alley,  turned  to  the 
right  through  the  bar,  then  to  the  left  into  the  lobby, 
and  thence  to  the  elevator. 

In  Renoux's  rooms  they  turned  on  the  electric  light, 
locked  the  door,  closed  the  transom,  then  spread  their 
plunder  out  on  a  table. 

To  Renoux's  disgust  his  own  loot  consisted  of  sealed 
envelopes  full  of  clippings  from  German  newspapers 
published  in  Chicago,  Milwaukee,  and  New  York. 

"That  animal,  Lehr,"  he  said  with  a  wry  face,  "has 
certainly  played  us  a  filthy  turn.  These  clippings 

amount  to  nothing "  His  eyes  fell  on  the  packet 

of  papers  which  Barres  was  now  opening,  and  he  leaned 
over  his  shoulder  to  look. 

"Thank  God!"  he  said,  "here  they  are!  Where  on 
earth  did  you  find  these  papers,  Barres?  They're  the 
documents  we  were  after!  They  ought  to  have  been 
in  Lehr's  pockets !" 

"He  must  have  passed  them  to  the  fellow  who 
bumped  into  me  near  the  washroom,"  said  Barres,  en 
chanted  at  his  luck.  "What  a  fortunate  chance  that 
you  sent  me  around  there !" 

Renoux,  delighted,  stood  under  the  electric  light  un 
folding  document  after  document,  and  nodding  his 
handsome,  mischievous  head  with  satisfaction. 

"What  luck,  Barres !  What  did  you  do  to  the  fel 
low?" 

"Thumped  him  to  sleep  and  turned  out  his  pockets. 
Are  these  really  what  you  want?" 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"I  should  say  so!  This  is  precisely  what  we  are 
looking  for!" 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  read  them,  too?" 

"No,  I  don't.  Why  should  I?  You're  my  loyal 
comrade  and  you  understand  discretion.  .  .  .  What 
do  you  think  of  this!"  displaying  a  typewritten  docu 
ment  marked  "Copy,"  enclosing  a  sheaf  of  maps. 

It  contained  plans  of  all  the  East  River  and  Harlem 
bridges,  a  tracing  showing  the  course  of  the  new  aque 
duct  and  the  Ashokan  Dam,  drawings  of  the  Navy 
Yard,  a  map  of  lona  Island,  and  a  plan  of  the  Welland 
Canal. 

The  document  was  brief: 

"Included  in  report  by  K17  to  Diplomatic  Agent  con 
trolling  Section  7-4-1 1-B.  Recommended  that  detail  plan 
of  DuPont  works  be  made  without  delay. 

"SKEEI,." 

Followed  several  sheets  in  cipher,  evidently  some  in 
tricate  variation  of  those  which  are  always  ultimately 
solved  by  experts. 

But  the  documents  that  were  now  unfolded  by  Cap*- 
tain  Renoux  proved  readable  and  intensely  interesting. 

These  were  the  papers  which  Renoux  read  and  which 
Barres  read  over  his  shoulder: 

"(Copy) 

Berlin  Military  Telegraph  Office 
Telegram 

Berlin.    Political  Division  of  the  General 

Staff 
Nr.  Pol.  6431. 

(SECRET) 
8,  Moltkestrasse, 
Berlin,  NW,  40. 
March  20;  1916. 


GROGAN'S 


"FEREZ  BEY, 

N.  Y. 

"Referring  to  your  correspondence  and  conversations 
with  Colonel  Skeel,  I  most  urgently  request  that  the  neces 
sary  funds  be  raised  through  the  New  York  banker,  Adolf 
Gerhardt;  also  that  Bernstorff  be  immediately  informed 
through  Boy-Ed,  so  that  plans  of  Head  General  Staff  of 
Army  on  campaign  may  not  be  delayed. 

"Begin  instantly  enlist  and  train  men,  secure  and  arm 
power-boat  assemble  equipment  and  explosives,  Welland 
Canal  Exp'd'n.  War  Office  No.  159-16,  Secret  U.  K.:— 

T3    P  " 
,  o}  r. 

"Foreign  Office,  Berlin, 

"Dec.  28,  1914. 

"DEAR  SIR  ROGER: — I  have  the  honour  to  acknowledge 
receipt  of  your  letter  of  the  23d  inst.,  in  which  you  sub 
mitted  to  his  Imperial  Majesty's  Government  a  proposal 
for  the  formation  of  an  Irish  brigade  which  would  be 
pledged  to  fight  only  for  the  cause  of  Irish  nationalism, 
and  which  is  to  be  composed  of  any  Irish  prisoners  of  war 
willing  to  join  such  a  regiment. 

"In  reply  I  have  the  honour  to  inform  you  that  his 
Imperial  Majesty's  Government  agrees  to  your  proposal 
and  also  to  the  conditions  under  which  it  might  be  possible 
to  train  an  Irish  brigade.  These  conditions  are  set  out 
in  the  declaration  enclosed  in  your  letter  of  the  13th  inst., 
and  are  given  at  foot.  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  dear  Roger, 
your  obedient  servant, 

"(Signed)     ZIMMERMAN, 
"Under  Secretary  of  State  for  the  Foreign  Office. 

"To  His  HONOUR,  SIR  ROGER  CASEMENT, 
"Eden  Hotel,  Kurfurstendamm,  Berlin." 

"(SECRET) 
"COLONEL  MURTAGH  SKEEL, 

"Flying  Division,  Irish  Expeditionary  Corps, 

"New  York. 

"For  your  information  I  enclose  Zimmerman's  letter  to 
Sir  Roger,  and  also  the  text  of  Articles  6  and  7,  being  part 
of  our  first  agreement  with  Sir  Roger  Casement. 

273 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"You  will  note  particularly  the  Article  numbered  7« 

"This  paragraph,  unfortunately,  still  postpones  your  sug 
gested  attempt  to  seize  on  the  high  seas  a  British  or  neu 
tral  steamer  loaded  with  arms  and  munitions,  and  make  a 
landing  from  her  on  the  Irish  Coast. 

"But,  in  the  meantime,  is  it  not  possible  for  you  to  seize 
one  of  J;he  large  ore  steamers  on  the  Great  Lakes,  transfer 
to  her  sufficient  explosives,  take  her  into  the  Welland  Canal 
and  blow  up  the  locks  ? 

"No  more  valuable  service  could  be  performed  by  Irish 
men;  no  deadlier  blow  delivered  at  England. 

"I  am,  my  dear  Skeel,  your  sincere  friend  and  comrade, 

"(Signed)     VON  PAPEN. 

"P.  S. — Herewith  appended  are  Articles  6  and  7  included 
in  the  Casement  convention: 

"(SECRET) 

"Text  of  Articles  6  and  7  of  the  convention  concluded 
between  Sir  Roger  Casement  and  the  German  Government: 

"6.  The  German  Imperial  Government  undertakes  'un 
der  certain  circumstances'  to  lend  the  Irish  Brigade  adequate 
military  support,  and  to  send  it  to  Ireland  abundantly 
supplied  with  arms  and  ammunition,  in  order  that  once 
there  it  may  equip  any  Irish  who  would  like  to  join  it  in 
making  an  attempt  to  re-establish  Ireland's  national  liberty 
by  force  of  arms. 

"The  'special  circumstances'  stipulated  above  are  as 
follows : 

"In  case  of  a  German  naval  victory  which  would  make 
it  possible  to  reach  the  Irish  coast,  the  German  Imperial 
Government  pledges  itself  to  despatch  the  Irish  Brigade 
and  a  German  expeditionary  corps  commanded  by  German 
officers,  in  German  troopships,  to  attempt  a  landing  on  the 
Irish  coast. 

"7.  It  will  be  impossible  to  contemplate  a  landing  in 
Ireland  unless  the  German  Navy  can  gain  such  a  victory 
as  to  make  it  really  likely  that  an  attempt  to  reach  Ireland 
by  sea  would  succeed.  Should  the  German  Navy  not  win 
such  a  victory,  then  a  use  will  be  found  for  the  Irish 
Brigade  in  Germany  or  elsewhere.  But  in  no  case  will 


GROGAN'S 


it  be  used  except  in  such  ways  as  Sir  Roger  Casement  shall 
approve,,  as  being  completely  in  accordance  with  Article  2. 

"In  this  case  the  Irish  Brigade  might  be  sent  to  Egypt 
to  lend  assistance  in  expelling  the  English  and  re-establish 
ing  Egyptian  independence. 

"Even  if  the  Irish  Brigade  should  not  succeed  in  fighting 
for  the  liberation  of  Ireland  from  the  English  yoke,  never 
theless  a  blow  dealt  at  the  British  intruders  in  Egypt  and 
intended  to  help  the  Egyptians  to  recover  their  freedom 
would  be  a  blow  struck  for  a  cause  closely  related  to  that 
of  Ireland." 

Another  paper  read  as  follows: 

"Halbmondlager, 

"Aug.  20th,  1915. 
"(SECRET)" 

"To  MURTAGH  SKEEL,  COLONEL, 
"Irish  Exp.  Force, 
"N.  Y. 

"REPORT 

"On  June  7,  fifty  Irishmen,  with  one  German  subaltern, 
were  handed  over  to  this  camp,  to  be  temporarily  accom 
modated  here.  On  June  16  five  more  Irishmen  arrived, 
one  of  whom,  having  a  broken  leg,  was  sent  to  the  camp 
hospital.  There  are,  therefore,  fifty-four  Irishmen  now 
here,  one  Sergeant  Major,  one  Deputy  Sergeant  Major, 
three  Sergeants,  three  Corporals,  three  Lance  Corporals, 
and  forty-three  privates. 

"They  were  accommodated  as  well  as  could  be  among 
the  Indian  battalion,  an  arrangement  which  gives  rise  to 
much  trouble,  which  is  inevitable,  considering  the  tasks 
imposed  upon  Half  Moon  Camp. 

"The  Irish  form  an  Irish  brigade,  which  was  consti 
tuted  after  negotiations  between  the  Foreign  Office  and  Sir 
Roger  Casement,  the  champion  of  Irish  independence. 

"Enclosed  is  the  Foreign  Office  communication  of  Dec. 
28,  1914,  confirming  the  conditions  on  which  the  Irish 
brigade  was  to  be  formed. 

"The  members  of  the  Irish  brigade  are  no  longer  Ger- 
275 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


man  prisoners  of  war,  but  receive  an  Irish  uniform;  and, 
according  to  orders,  instructions  are  to  be  issued  to  treat 
the  Irish  as  comrades  in  arms. 

"The  Irish  are  under  the  command  of  a  German  officer, 
First  Lieut.  Boehm,  the  representative  of  the  Grand  Gen 
eral  Staff  (Political  Division)  which  is  in  direct  communi 
cation  with  the  subaltern  in  charge  of  the  Irish.  This 
subaltern  has  been  receiving  money  direct,  which  he  ex 
pends  in  the  interests  of  the  Irish;  250  marks  were  given 
him  through  the  Commandant's  office,  Zossen,  and  250  marks 
by  First  Lieut.  Boehm. 

"Promotions,  also,  are  made  known  by  being  directly 
communicated  to  the  subaltern  in  question.  As  will  appear 
from  the  enclosed  copy,  dated  July  20,  these  promotions 
were  as  follows:  (1)  Sergeant  Major,  (2)  Deputy  Sergeant 
Major,  and  (3)  Sergeants. 

"The  uniforms  arrived  between  the  end  of  July  and  the 
beginning  of  August.  Their  coming  was  announced  in  a 
letter  dated  July  20  (copy  enclosed),  and  their  distribu 
tion  was  ordered.  The  box  of  uniforms  was  addressed  to 
Zossen,  whence  it  was  brought  here.  The  uniforms  con 
sist  of  a  jacket,  trousers,  and  cap  in  Irish  style,  and  are 
of  huntsman's  green  cloth.  Altogether,  uniforms  arrived 
for  fifty  men,  and  they  have  since  been  given  out.  Three 
non-commissioned  officers  brought  their  uniforms  with  them 
from  Limburg  on  July  16.  Two  photographs  of  the  Irish 
are  annexed. 

"A  few  Irish  are  in  correspondence  with  Sir  Roger 
Casement,  who,  in  a  letter  from  Munich,  dated  Aug.  16, 
says  that  he  hears  that  the  Irish  are  shortly  to  be  trans 
ferred  from  here  to  another  place.  In  a  letter  dated 
July  1 7  he  complains  of  his  want  of  success,  only  fifty  men 
having  sent  in  their  names  as  wishing  to  join  the  brigade. 

"Six  weeks  ago  Sir  Roger  Casement  was  here  with  First 
Lieutenant  Boehm.  Since  then,  however,  neither  of  these 
gentlemen  has  personally  visited  the  Irish. 

"Since  the  18th  of  June  the  commandant's  office  has 
allowed  every  penniless  Irishman  two  marks  a  week — a 
sum  which  is  now  being  paid  out  to  fifty-three  men. 

"On  Aug.  6  the  subaltern  in  charge  of  the  Irish  brigade 
was  given  a  German  soldier  to  help  him. 

"In  this  camp  every  possible  endeavour  is  made  to 
276 


GROGAN'S 


help  to  attain  the  important  objects  in  view,  but  owing 
to  the  Irish  being  accommodated  with  coloured  races  within 
the  precincts  of  a  closed  camp,  it  is  inevitable  that  serious 
dissensions  and  acts  of  violence  should  take  place.  More 
over,  a  German  subaltern  is  not  suited  for  dealing  inde 
pendently  with  Irishmen. 

"(Sgd.)     HAUPTMANN,  d.  R.  a.  D., 
"(Retired  Captain  on  the  Reserve  List)." 

The  last  paper  read  as  follows: 

"(COPY) 
"(Wireless  via  Mexico) 

"Berlin  (no  date). 
"FEREZ, 

"N.  Y. 

"Necessary  close  Nihla  Quellen  case  immediately.  Evi 
dently  useless  expect  her  take  service  with  us.  Hold  you 
responsible.  Advise  you  take  secret  measures  to  end  men 
ace  to  our  interests  in  Paris.  D'Eblis  urges  instant  action. 
Bolo  under  suspicion.  Ex-minister  also  suspected.  Only 
drastic  and  final  action  on  your  part  can  end  danger.  You 
know  what  to  do.  Do  it." 

The  telegram  was  signed  with  a  string  of  letters  and 
numerals. 

Renoux  glanced  curiously  at  Barres,  who  had  turned 
very  red  and  was  beginning  to  re-read  the  wireless. 

When  he  finished,  Renoux  folded  all  the  documents 
and  placed  them  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat. 

"Mon  ami,  Barres,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "you  and 
I  have  much  yet  to  say  to  each  other." 

"In  the  meanwhile,  let  us  wash  the  stains  of  combat 
from  our  persons.  What  is  the  number  of  your  col 
lar?" 

"Fifteen  and  a  half." 

"I  can  fit  you  out.  The  bathroom  is  this  way,  old 
top !" 

277 


XXI 

THE  WHITE  BLACKBIRD' 

REFRESHED  by  icy  baths  and  clean  linen,  and 
now  further  fortified  against  the  slings  and 
arrows  of  outrageous  fortune  by  a  supper  of 
cold  fowl  and  Moselle,  Captain  Renoux  and  Garret 
Barres  sat  in  the  apartment  of  the  former  gentleman, 
gaily  exchanging  Latin  Quarter  reminiscences  through 
the  floating  haze  of  their  cigars. 

But  the  conversation  soon  switched  back  toward  the 
far  more  serious  business  which  alone  accounted  for 
their  being  there  together  after  many  years.  For,  as 
the  French  officer  had  remarked,  a  good  deal  remained 
to  be  said  between  them.  And  Barres  knew  what  he 
meant,  and  was  deeply  concerned  at  the  prospect. 

But  Renoux  approached  the  matter  with  careless 
good  humour  and  by  a  leisurely,  circuitous  route,  which 
polite  pussy-footing  was  obviously  to  prepare  Barres 
for  impending  trouble. 

He  began  by  referring  to  his  mission  in  America, 
admitting  very  frankly  that  he  was  a  modest  link  in 
the  system  of  military  and  political  intelligence  main 
tained  by  all  European  countries  in  the  domains  of 
their  neighbours. 

"I  might  as  well  say  so,"  he  remarked,  "because  it's 
known  to  the  representatives  of  enemy  governments 
here  as  well  as  to  your  own  Government,  that  some  of 
us  are  here;  and  anybody  can  imagine  why.' 

"And,  in  the  course  of  my — studies,"  he  said  delib- 
278 


THE  WHITE  BLACKBIRD 

erately,  while  his  clear  eyes  twinkled,  "it  has  come  to 
my  knowledge,  and  to  the  knowledge  of  the  French 
Ambassador,  that  there  is,  in  New  York,  a  young 
woman  who  already  has  proven  herself  a  dangerous 
enemy  to  my  country." 

"That  is  interesting,  if  true,"  said  Barres,  redden 
ing  to  the  temples.  "But  it  is  even  more  interesting 
if  it  is  not  true.  .  .  .  And  it  isn't !" 

"You  think  not?" 

"I  don't  think  anything  about  it,  Renoux;  I  know." 

"I  am  afraid  you  have  been  misled,  Barres.  And  it 
is  natural  enough." 

"Why?" 

"Because,"  said  Renoux  serenely,  "she  is  very  beau 
tiful,  very  clever,  very  young,  very  appealing.  .  .  . 
Tell  me,  my  friend,  where  did  you  meet  her?" 

Barres  looked  him  in  the  eyes: 

"Where  did  you  learn  that  I  had  ever  met  her?" 

"Through  the  ordinary  channels  which,  if  you  will 
pardon  me,  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  discuss." 

"All  right.  It  is  sufficient  that  you  know  I  have 
met  her.  Now,  where  did  I  meet  her?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Renoux  candidly. 

"How  long  have  I  known  her  then?" 

"Possibly  a  few  weeks.  Our  information  is  that 
your  acquaintance  with  her  is  not  of  long  duration." 

"Wrong,  my  friend:  I  met  her  in  France  several 
years  ago ;  I  know  her  intimately." 

"Yes,  the  intimacy  has  been  reported,"  said  Renoux, 
blandly.  "But  it  doesn't  take  long,  sometimes." 

Barres  reddened  again  and  shook  his  head: 

"You  and  your  agents  are  all  wrong,  Renoux.  So 
is  your  Government.  Do  you  know  what  it's  doing 
— what  you  and  your  agents  are  doing?  You're  play 
ing  a  German  game  for  Berlin !" 

279 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


This  time  Renoux  flushed  and  there  was  a  slight 
quiver  to  his  lips  and  nostrils ;  but  he  said  very  pleas 
antly  : 

"That  would  be  rather  mortifying,  mon  ami,  if  it 
were  true." 

"It  is  true.  Berlin,  the  traitor  in  Paris,  the  con 
spirator  in  America,  the  German,  Austrian,  and  Turk 
ish  diplomatic  agents  here  ask  nothing  better  than  that 
you  manage,  somehow,  to  eliminate  the  person  in  ques 
tion." 

"Why?"  demanded  Renoux. 

"Because  more  than  one  of  your  public  men  in  Paris 
will  face  charges  of  conspiracy  and  treason  if  the  per 
son  in  question  ever  has  a  fair  hearing  and  a  chance 
to  prove  her  innocence  of  the  terrible  accusations  that 
have  been  made  against  her." 

"Naturally,"  said  Renoux,  "those  accused  bring 
counter  charges.  It  is  always  the  history  of  such 
cases,  mon  ami." 

"Your  mind  is  already  made  up,  then?" 

"My  mind  is  a  real  mind,  Barres.  Reason  is  what 
it  seeks — the  logical  evidence  that  leads  to  truth.  If 
there  is  anything  I  don't  know,  then  I  wish  to  know 
it,  and  will  spare  no  pains,  permit  no  prejudice  to 
warp  my  judgment." 

"All  right.  Now,  let's  have  the  thing  out  between 
us,  Renoux.  We  are  not  fencing  in  the  dark;  we  un 
derstand  each  other  and  are  honest  enough  to  say  so. 
Now,  go  on." 

Renoux  nodded  and  said  very  quietly  and  pleas 
antly  : 

"The  reference  in  one  of  these  papers  to  the  cele 
brated  Nihla  Quellen  reminds  me  of  the  first  time  I 
ever  saw  her.  I  was  quite  bowled  over,  Barres,  as  you 
may  easily  imagine.  She  sang  one  of  those  Asiatic 

280 


THE  WHITE  BLACKBIRD 

songs — and  then  the  dance! — a  miracle! — a  delight — 
apparently  entirely  unprepared,  unpremeditated  even 
— you  know  how  she  did  it? — exquisite  perfection — 
something  charmingly  impulsive  and  spontaneous — a 
caprice  of  the  moment!  Ah — there  is  a  wonderful  ar 
tiste,  NihlaQuellen!" 

Barres  nodded,  his  level  gaze  fixed  on  the  French 
officer. 

"As  for  the  document,"  continued  Renoux,  "it  does 
not  entirely  explain  itself  to  me.  You  see,  this  Eura 
sian,  Ferez  Bey,  was  a  very  intimate  friend  of  Nihla 
Quellen." 

"You  are  quite  mistaken,"  interposed  Barres.  But 
the  other  merely  smiled  with  a  slight  gesture  of  defer 
ence  to  his  friend's  opinion,  and  went  on. 

"This  Ferez  is  one  of  those  persistent,  annoying 
flies  which  buzz  around  chancelleries  and  stir  up  dip 
lomats  to  pernicious  activities.  You  know  there  isn't 
much  use  in  swatting,  as  you  say,  the  fly.  No.  Bet 
ter  find  the  manure  heap  which  hatched  him  and  burn 
that!" 

He  smiled  and  shrugged,  relighted  his  cigar,  and 
continued : 

"So,  mon  ami,  I  am  here  in  your  charming  and  hos 
pitable  city  to  direct  the  necessary  sanitary  measures, 
sub  rosa,  of  course.  You  have  been  more  than  kind. 
My  Government  and  I  have  you  to  thank  for  this  batch 

of   papers "      He   tapped  his   breast   pocket   and 

made  salutes  which  Frenchmen  alone  know  how  to 
make. 

"Renoux,"  said  Barres  bluntly,  "you  have  learned 
somehow  that  Nihla  Quellen  is  under  my  protection. 
You  conclude  I  am  her  lover." 

The  officer's  face  altered  gravely,  but  he  said  noth 
ing. 

281 


THE  MOONLIT  WAI 


Barres  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  and  laid  a  hand 
on  his  comrade's  shoulder: 

"Renoux,  do  you  trust  me,  personally?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well.  Then  I  shall  trust  you.  Because  there 
is  nothing  you  can  tell  me  about  Nihla  Quellen  that  I 
do  not  already  know — nothing  concerning  her  dossier 
in  your  secret  archives,  nothing  in  regard  to  the  evi 
dence  against  her  and  the  testimony  of  the  Count 
d'Eblis.  And  that  clears  the  ground  between  you  and 
me." 

If  Renoux  was  surprised  he  scarcely  showed  it. 

Barres  said: 

"As  long  as  you  know  that  she  is  under  my  protec 
tion,  I  want  you  to  come  to  my  place  and  talk  to  her. 
I  don't  ask  you  to  accept  my  judgment  in  regard  to 
her;  I  merely  wish  you  to  listen  to  what  she  has  to 
say,  and  then  come  to  your  own  conclusions.  Will 
you  do  this?" 

For  a  few  moments  Renoux  sat  quite  still,  his  clear, 
intelligent  eyes  fixed  on  the  smoking  tip  of  his  cigar. 
Without  raising  them  he  said  slowly: 

"As  we  understand  it,  Nihla  Quellen  has  been  a 
spy  from  the  very  beginning.  Our  information  is 
clear,  concise,  logical.  We  know  her  history.  She 
was  the  mistress  of  Prince  Cyril,  then  of  Ferez,  then 
of  d'Eblis — perhaps  of  the  American  banker,  Ger- 
hardt,  also.  She  came  directly  from  the  German  Em 
bassy  at  Constantinople  to  Paris,  on  Gerhardt's  yacht, 
the  Mirage,  and  under  his  protection  and  the  protec 
tion  of  Comte  Alexandre  d'Eblis. 

"Ferez  was  of  the  party.  And  that  companionship 
of  conspirators  never  was  dissolved  as  long  as  Nihla 
Quellen  remained  in  Europe." 

"That  Nihla  Quellen  has  ever  been  the  mistress  of 
282 


THE  WHITE  BLACKBIRD 

any  man  is  singularly  untrue,"  said  Barres  coolly. 
"Your  Government  has  to  do  with  a  chaste  woman; 
and  it  doesn't  even  know  that  much!" 

Renoux  regarded  him  curiously: 

"You  have  seen  her  dance?"  he  enquired  gravely. 

"Often.  And,  Renoux,  you  are  too  much  a  man  of 
the  world  to  be  surprised  at  the  unexpected.  There 
are  white  blackbirds." 

"Yes,  there  are." 

"Nihla  Quellen  is  one." 

"My  friend,  I  desire  to  believe  it  if  it  would  be  agree 
able  to  you." 

"I  know,  Renoux ;  I  believe  in  your  good-will.  Also, 
I  believe  in  your  honesty  and  intelligence.  And  so  I 
do  not  ask  you  to  accept  my  word  for  what  I  tell  you. 
Only  remember  that  I  am  absolutely  certain  concern 
ing  my  belief  in  Nihla  Quellen.  ...  I  have  no  doubt 
that  you  think  I  am  in  love  with  her.  ...  I  can't 
answer  you.  All  Europe  was  in  love  with  her.  Per 
haps  I  am.  ...  I  don't  know,  Renoux.  But  this  I 
do  know;  she  is  clean  and  sweet  and  honest  from  the 
crown  of  her  head  to  the  sole  of  her  foot.  In  her  heart 
there  has  never  dwelt  treachery.  Talk  to  her  to-night. 
You're  like  the  best  of  your  compatriots,  clear  minded, 
logical,  intelligent,  and  full  of  that  legitimate  imagina 
tion  without  which  intellect  is  a  machine.  You  know 
the  world;  you  know  men;  you  don't  know  women  and 
you  know  you  don't.  Therefore,  you  are  equipped  to 
learn  the  truth — to  divine  it — from  Nihla  Quellen. 
Will  you  come  over  to  my  place  now?" 

"Yes,"  said  Renoux  pleasantly. 

The  orchestra  was  playing  as  they  passed  through 
the  hotel ;  supper  rooms,  corridors,  cafe  and  lobby  were 
crowded  with  post-theatre  throngs  in  search  of  food 

283 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


and  drink  and  dance  music ;  and  although  few  theatres 
were  open  in  July,  Long  Acre  blazed  under  its  myriad 
lights  and  the  sidewalks  were  packed  with  the  audiences 
filtering  out  of  the  various  summer  shows  and  into  all- 
night  cabarets. 

They  looked  across  at  the  distant  war  bulletins  dis 
played  on  Times  Square,  around  which  the  usual  ges 
ticulating  crowd  had  gathered,  but  kept  on  across 
Long  Acre,  and  west  toward  Sixth  Avenue. 

Midway  in  the  block,  Renoux  touched  his  comrade 
silently  on  the  arm,  and  halted. 

"A  few  minutes,  mon  ami,  if  you  don't  mind — time 
for  you  to  smoke  a  cigarette  while  waiting." 

They  had  stopped  before  a  brownstone  house  which 
had  been  ^converted  into  a  basement  dwelling,  and 
which  was  now  recessed  between  two  modern  shops  con 
structed  as  far  as  the  building  line. 

All  the  shades  and  curtains  in  the  house  were  drawn 
and  the  place  appeared  to  be  quite  dark,  but  a  ring 
at  the  bell  brought  a  big,  powerfully  built  porter,  who 
admitted  them  to  a  brightly  lighted  reception  room. 
Then  the  porter  replaced  the  chains  on  the  door  of 
bronze. 

"Just  a  little  while,  if  you  will  be  amiable  enough 
to  have  patience,"  said  Renoux. 

He  went  away  toward  the  rear  of  the  house  and 
Barres  seated  himself.  And  in  a  few  moments  the  burly 
porter  reappeared  with  a  tray  containing  a  box  of 
cigarettes  and  a  tall  glass  of  Moselle. 

"Monsieur  Renoux  will  not  be  long,"  he  said,  bring 
ing  a  sheaf  of  French  illustrated  periodicals  to  the 
little  table  at  Barres*  elbow;  and  he  retired  with  a 
bow  and  resumed  his  chair  in  the  corridor  by  the  bronze 
door. 

Through  closed  doors,  somewhere  from  the  rear  of 
284 


THE  WHITE  BLACKBIRD 

the  silent  house  came  the  distant  click  of  a  typewriter. 
At  moments,  too,  looking  over  the  war  pictures  in  the 
periodicals,  Barres  imagined  that  he  heard  a  confused 
murmur  as  of  many  voices. 

Later  it  became  evident  that  there  were  a  number 
of  people  somewhere  in  the  house,  because,  now  and 
then,  the  porter  unlatched  the  door  and  drew  the 
chains  to  let  out  some  swiftly  walking  man. 

Once  two  men  came  out  together.  One  carried  a 
satchel;  the  other  halted  in  the  hallway  to  slip  a  clip 
into  an  automatic  pistol  before  dropping  it  into  the 
side  pocket  of  his  coat. 

And  after  a  while  Renoux  appeared,  bland,  de- 
bonaire,  evidently  much  pleased  with  whatever  he  had 
been  doing. 

Two  other  men  appeared  in  the  corridor  behind  him ; 
he  said  something  to  them  in  a  low  voice ;  Barres  imag 
ined  he  heard  the  words,  "Washington"  and  "Jus- 
serand." 

Then  the  two  men  went  out,  walking  at  a  smart  pace, 
and  Renoux  sauntered  into  the  tiny  reception  room. 

"You  don't  know,"  he  said,  "what  a  very  important 
service  you  have  rendered  us  by  catching  that  fellow 
to-night  and  stripping  him  of  his  papers." 

Barres  rose  and  they  walked  out  together. 

"This  city,"  added  Renoux,  "is  fairly  verminous  with 
disloyal  Huns.  The  streets  are  crawling  with  them ; 
every  German  resort,  saloon,  beer  garden,  keller,  cafe, 
club,  society — every  German  drug  store,  delicatessen 
shop,  music  store,  tobacconist,  is  lousy  with  the  treach 
erous  swine. 

"There  are  two  great  hotels  where  the  boche  gath 
ers  and  plots ;  two  great  banking  firms  are  centres  of 
German  propaganda ;  three  great  department  stores, 
dozens  of  downtown  commercial  agencies ;  various 

285 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


buildings  and  piers  belonging  to  certain  transatlantic 
steamship  lines,  the  offices  of  certain  newspapers  and 
periodicals.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  Barres,  did  you  know  that 
the  banker,  Gerhardt,  owns  the  building  in  which  you 
live?" 

"Dragon  Court!" 

"You  didn't  know  it,  evidently.     Yes,  he  owns  it." 

"Is  he  really  involved  in  pro-German  intrigue?" 
asked  Barres. 

"That  is  our  information." 

"I  ask,"  continued  Barres  thoughtfully,  "because  his 
summer  home  is  at  Northbrook,  not  far  from  my  own 
home.  And  to  me  there  is  something  peculiarly  con 
temptible  about  disloyalty  in  the  wealthy  who  owe 
every  penny  to  the  country  they  betray." 

"His  place  is  called  Hohenlinden,"  remarked  Renoux. 

"Yes.     Are  you  having  it  watched?" 

Renoux  smiled.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  about 
other  places,  also — the  German  Embassy,  for  example, 
where,  inside  the  Embassy  itself,  not  only  France  but 
also  the  United  States  Government  was  represented  by 
a  secret  agent  among  the  personnel. 

"We  try  to  learn  what  goes  on  among  the  boch.es," 
he  said  carelessly.  "They  try  the  same  game.  But, 
Barres,  they  are  singularly  stupid  at  such  things — 
not  adroit,  merely  clums3r  and  brutal.  The  Hun  can 
not  camouflage  his  native  ferocity.  He  reveals  him 
self. 

"And  in  that  respect  it  is  fortunate  for  civilisation 
that  it  is  dealing  with  barbarians.  Their  cunning  is 
of  the  swinish  sort.  Their  stench  ultimately  discovers 
them.  You  are  discovering  it  for  yourselves ;  you  de 
tected  Dernberg;  you  already  sniff  Von  Papen,  Boy-ed, 
Bernstorff.  All  over  the  world  the  nauseous  effluvia 
from  the  vast  Teutonic  hog-pen  is  being  detected  and 

286 


THE  WHITE  BLACKBIRD 

recognised.  And  civilisation  is  taking  sanitary  meas 
ures  to  abate  the  nuisance.  .  .  .  And  your  country, 
too,  will  one  day  send  out  a  sanitary  brigade  to  help 
clean  up  the  world,  just  as  you  now  supply  our  details 
with  the  necessary  chlorides  and  antiseptics. " 

Barres  laughed: 

"You  are  very  picturesque,"  he  said.  "And  I'll  tell 
you  one  thing,  if  we  don't  join  the  sanitary  corps  now 
operating,  I  shall  go  out  with  a  bottle  of  chloride 
myself." 

They  entered  Dragon  Court  a  few  moments  later. 
Nobody  was  at  the  desk,  it  being  late. 

"To-morrow,"  said  Barres,  as  they  ascended  the 
stairs,  "my  friends,  Miss  Soane,  Miss  Dunois,  and 
Mr.  Westmore  are  to  be  our  guests  at  Foreland  Farms. 
You  didn't  know  that,  did  you?"  he  added  sarcastically. 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Renoux,  much  amused.  "Miss 
Dunois,  as  you  call  her,  sent  her  trunks  away  this  eve 
ning." 

Barres,  surprised  and  annoyed,  halted  on  the  land 
ing: 

"Your  people  didn't  interfere,  I  hope." 

"No.  There  was  nothing  in  them  of  interest  to  us," 
said  Renoux  naively.  "I  sent  a  report  when  I  sent  on 
to  Washington  the  papers  which  you  secured  for  us." 

Barres  paused  before  his  studio  door,  key  in  hand. 
They  could  hear  the  gramophone  going  inside.  He 
said: 

"I  don't  have  to  ask  you  to  be  fair,  Renoux,  because 
the  man  who  is  unfair  to  others  swindles  himself,  and 
you  are  too  decent,  too  intelligent  to  do  that.  I  am 
going  to  present  you  to  Thessalie  Dunois,  which  hap 
pens  to  be  her  real  name,  and  I  am  going  to  tell  her 
in  your  presence  who  you  are.  Then  I  shall  leave  you 
alone  with  her." 

287 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


He  fitted  his  latchkey  and  opened  the  door. 

Westmore  was  trying  fancy  dancing  with  Dulcie 
on  one  side,  and  Thessalie  on  the  other — the  latter 
evidently  directing  operations. 

"Garry !"  exclaimed  Thessalie. 

"You're  a  fine  one!  Where  have  you  been?"  began 
Westmore.  Then  he  caught  sight  of  Renoux  and  be 
came  silent. 

Barres  led  his  comrade  forward  and  presented 
him: 

"A  fellow  student  of  the  Beaux  Arts,"  he  explained, 
"and  we've  had  a  very  jolly  evening  together.  And, 
Thessa,  there  is  something  in  particular  that  I  should 
like  to  have  you  explain  to  Monsieur  Renoux,  if  you 
don't  mind.  .  .  ."  He  turned  and  looked  at  Dulcie: 
"If  you  will  pardon  us  a  moment,  Sweetness." 

She  nodded  and  smiled  and  took  Westmore's  arm 
again,  and  continued  the  dance  alone  with  him  while 
Barres,  drawing  Thessalie's  arm  through  his,  and  pass 
ing  his  other  arm  through  Renoux's,  walked  leisurely 
through  his  studio,  through  the  now  open  folding  doors, 
past  his  bedroom  and  Westmore's,  and  into  the  lat- 
ter's  studio  beyond. 

"Thessa,  dear,"  he  said  very  quietly,  "I  feel  very 
certain  that  the  worst  of  your  troubles  are  about  to 
end "  He  felt  her  start  slightly.  "And,"  he  con 
tinued,  "I  have  brought  my  comrade,  Renoux,  here 
to-night  so  that  you  and  he  can  clear  up  a  terrible 
misunderstanding. 

"And  Monsieur  Renoux,  once  a  student  of  architec 
ture  at  the  Beaux  Arts,  is  now  Captain  Renoux  of 
the  Intelligence  Department  in  the  French  Army " 

Thessalie  lost  her  colour  and  a  tremor  passed 
through  the  arm  which  lay  within  his. 

But  he  said  calmly: 

288 


THE  WHITE  BLACKBIRD 

"It  is  the  only  way  as  well  as  the  best  way,  Thessa. 
I  know  you  are  absolutely  innocent.  I  am  confident 
that  Captain  Renoux  is  going  to  believe  it,  too.  If  he 
does  not,  you  are  no  worse  off.  Because  it  has  al 
ready  become  known  to  the  French  Government  that 
you  are  here.  Renoux  knew  it." 

They  had  halted;  Barres  led  Thessalie  to  a  seat. 
Renoux,  straight,  deferential,  correct,  awaited  her 
pleasure. 

She  looked  up  at  him;  his  keen,  intelligent  eyes  met 
hers. 

"If  you  please,  Captain  Renoux,  will  you  do  me 
the  honour  to  be  seated?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Barres  went  to  her,  bent  over  her  hand,  touched  it 
with  his  lips. 

"Just  tell  him  the  truth,  Thessa,  dear,"  he  said. 

"Everything?"  she  smiled  faintly,  "including  our 
first  meeting?" 

Barres  flushed,  then  laughed: 

"Yes,  tell  him  about  that,  too.  It  was  too  charm 
ing  for  him  not  to  appreciate." 

And  with  a  half  mischievous,  half  amused  nod  to 
Renoux  he  went  back  to  find  the  dancers,  whom  he 
could  hear  laughing  far  away  in  his  own  studio. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  when  Dulcie,  who  had  been 
sleeping  with  Thessalie,  whispered  to  Barres  that  she 
was  ready  to  retire. 

"Indeed,  you  had  better,"  he  said,  releasing  her  as 
the  dance  music  ran  down  and  ceased.  "If  you  don't 
get  some  sleep  you  won't  feel  like  travelling  to-mor 
row." 

"Will  you  explain  to  Thessa?'* 

"Of  course.     Good-night,  dear.'* 
289 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


She  gave  him  her  hand  in  silence,  turned  and  offered 
it  to  Westmore,  then  went  away  toward  her  room. 

Westmore,  who  had  been  fidgeting  a  lot  since  Thes- 
salie  had  retired  for  a  tete-a-tete  with  a  perfectly  un 
known  and  alarmingly  good-looking  young  man  whom 
he  never  before  had  laid  eyes  on,  finally  turned  short 
in  his  restless  pacing  of  the  studio. 

"What  the  deuce  can  be  keeping  Thessa?"  he  de 
manded.  "And  who  the  devil  is  that  black-eyed  young 
sprig  of  France  you  brought  home  with  you?" 

"Sit  down  and  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Barres  crisply, 
instinctively  resenting  his  friend's  uncalled  for  solici 
tude  in  Thessalie's  behalf. 

So  Westmore  seated  himself  and  Barres  told  him 
all  about  the  evening's  adventures.  And  he  was  still 
lingering  unctuously  over  the  details  of  the  battle  at 
Grogan's,  the  recital  of  which,  Westmore  demanding, 
he  had  begun  again,  when  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
studio  Thessalie  appeared,  coming  toward  them. 

Renoux  was  beside  her,  very  deferential  and  grace 
ful  in  his  attendance,  and  with  that  niceness  of  attitude 
which  confesses  respect  in  every  movement. 

Thessalie  came  forward;  Barres  advanced  to  meet 
her  with  the  unspoken  question  in  his  eyes,  and  she 
gave  him  both  her  hands  with  a  tremulous  little  smile 
of  happiness. 

"Is  it  all  right?"  he  whispered. 

"I  think  so." 

Barres  turned  and  grasped  Renoux  by  one  hand. 

The  latter  said : 

"There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  in  my  mind,  mon 
ami.  You  were  perfectly  right.  A  frightful  injustice 
has  been  done  in  this  matter.  Of  that  I  am  absolutely 
convinced." 

"You  will  do  what  you  can  to  set  things  right?" 
290 


THE  WHITE  BLACKBIRD 

"Of  course,"  said  Renoux  simply. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  Renoux  smiled: 

"You  know,"  he  said  lightly,  "we  French  have  a 
horror  of  any  more  mistakes  like  the  Dreyfus  case. 
We  are  terribly  sensitive.  Be  assured  that  my  Gov 
ernment  will  take  up  this  affair  instantly  upon  receiv 
ing  my  report." 

He  turned  to  Barres: 

"Would  you,  perhaps,  offer  me  a  day's  hospitality 
at  your  home  in  the  country,  if  I  should  request  it 
by  telegram  sometime  this  week  or  next?'* 

"You  bet,"  replied  Barres  cordially. 

Then  Renoux  made  his  adieux,  as  only  such  a 
Frenchman  can  make  them,  saying  exactly  the  right 
thing  to  each,  in  exactly  the  right  manner. 

When  he  was  gone,  Barres  took  Thessalie's  hands 
and  pressed  them: 

"Pretty  merle-blanc,  your  little  friend  Dulcie  is  al 
ready  asleep.  Tell  us  to-morrow  how  you  convinced 
him  that  you  are  what  you  are — the  dearest,  sweetest 
girl  in  the  world!" 

She  laughed  demurely,  then  glanced  apprehensively, 
sideways,  at  Westmore. 

And  the  mute  but  infuriated  expression  on  that 
young  man's  countenance  seemed  to  cause  her  the  loss 
of  all  self-possession,  for  she  cast  one  more  look  at 
him  and  fled  with  a  hasty  "good-night !" 


XXII 

FORELAND    FARMS 

TOWARD  three  o'clock  on  the  following  after 
noon  the  sun  opened  up  like  a  searchlight 
through  the  veil  of  rain,  dissolving  it  to  a 
golden  haze  which  gradually  grew  thinner  and  thinner, 
revealing  glimpses  of  rolling  country  against  a  hori 
zon  of  low  mountains. 

About  the  same  time  the  covered  station  wagon 
turned  in  between  the  white  gates  of  Foreland  Farms, 
proceeded  at  a  smart  trot  up  the  drive,  and  stopped 
under  a  dripping  porte-cochere,  where  a  smiling  serv 
ant  stood  waiting  to  lift  out  the  luggage. 

A  trim  looking  man  of  forty  odd,  in  soft  shirt  and 
fawn  coloured  knickers,  and  wearing  a  monocle  in  his 
right  eye  and  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  came  out  on 
the  porch  as  Barres  and  his  guests  descended. 

"Well,  Garry,"  he  said,  "I'm  glad  you're  home  at 
last !  But  you're  rather  late  for  the  fishing."  And 
to  Westmore: 

"How  are  you,  Jim?  Jolly  to  have  you  back!  But 
I  regret  to  inform  you  that  the  fishing  is  very  poor 
just  now." 

His  son,  who  stood  an  inch  or  two  taller  than  his 
debonaire  parent,  passed  one  arm  around  his  shoulders 
and  patted  them  affectionately  while  the  easy  presenta 
tions  were  concluded. 

At  the  same  moment  two  women,  beautifuly  mounted 


FORELAND  FARMS 


and  very  wet,  galloped  up  to  the  porch  and  welcomed 
Garry's  guests  from  their  saddles  in  the  pleasant,  in 
formal,  incurious  manner  characteristic  of  Foreland 
Farm  folk — a  manner  which  seemed  too  amiably  cer 
tain  of  itself  to  feel  responsibility  for  anybody  or 
anything  else. 

Easy,  unconcerned,  slender  and  clean-built  women 
these — Mrs.  Reginald  Barres,  Garry's  mother,  and  her 
daughter,  Lee.  And  in  their  smart,  rain-wet  riding 
clothes  they  might  easily  have  been  sisters,  with  a  few 
years'  difference  between  them,  so  agreeably  had  Time 
behaved  toward  Mrs.  Barres,  so  closely  her  fair-haired, 
fair-skinned  daughter  resembled  her. 

They  swung  carelessly  out  of  their  saddles  and  set 
spurred  foot  to  turf,  and,  with  Garret  and  his  guests, 
sauntered  into  the  big  living  hall,  where  a  maid  waited 
with  wine  and  biscuits  and  the  housekeeper  lingered  to 
conduct  Thessalie  and  Dulcie  to  their  rooms. 

Dulcie  Soane,  in  her  pretty  travelling  gown,  walked 
beside  Mrs.  Reginald  Barres  into  the  first  great  house 
she  had  ever  entered.  Composed,  but  shyly  enchanted, 
an  odd  but  delightful  sensation  possessed  her  that  she 
was  where  she  belonged — that  such  environment,  such 
people  should  always  have  been  familiar  to  her — were 
logical  and  familiar  to  her  now. 

Mrs.  Barres  was  saying: 

"And  if  you  like  parties,  there  is  always  gaiety  at 
Northbrook.  But  you  don't  have  to  go  anywhere  or 
do  anything  you  don't  wish  to." 

Dulcie  said,  diffidently,  that  she  liked  everything, 
and  Mrs.  Barres  laughed. 

"Then  you'll  be  very  popular,"  she  said,  tossing  her 
riding  crop  onto  the  table  and  stripping  off  her  wet 
gloves. 

Barres  senior  was  already  in  serious  confab  with 
293 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Westmore  concerning  piscatorial  conditions,  the  nat 
ural  low  water  of  midsummer,  the  capricious  conduct 
of  the  trout  in  the  streams  and  in  the  upper  and  lower 
lakes. 

"They  won't  look  at  anything  until  sunset,"  he  ex 
plained,  "and  then  they  don't  mean  business.  You'll 
see,  Jim.  I'm  sorry;  you  should  have  come  in  June." 

Lee,  Garret's  boyishly  slim  sister,  had  already  be 
gun  to  exchange  opinions  about  horses  with  Thessalie, 
for  both  had  been  familiar  with  the  saddle  since  child 
hood,  though  the  latter's  Cossack  horsemanship  and 
mastery  of  the  haute  ecole,  incident  to  her  recent  and 
irregular  profession,  might  have  astonished  Lee  Barres. 

Mrs.  Barres  was  saying  to  Dulcie: 

"We  don't  try  to  entertain  one  another  here,  but 
everybody  seems  to  have  a  perfectly  good  time.  The 
main  thing  is  that  we  all  feel  quite  free  at  Foreland. 
You'll  lose  yourself  indoors  at  first.  The  family  for 
a  hundred  years  has  been  adding  these  absurd  two- 
story  wings,  so  that  the  house  wanders  at  random  over 
the  landscape,  and  you  may  have  to  inquire  your  way 
about  in  the  beginning." 

She  smiled  again  at  Dulcie  and  took  her  hand  in 
both  of  hers:  '. 

"I'm  sure  you  will  like  the  Farms,"  she  said,  linking 
her  other  arm  through  her  son's.  "I'm  rather  wet, 
Garry,"  she  added,  "but  I  think  Lee  and  I  had  better 
dry  out  in  the  saddle."  And  to  Dulcie  again:  "Tea 
at  five,  if  anybody  wishes  it.  Would  you  like  to  see 
your  room?" 

Thessalie,  conversing  with  Lee,  turned  smilingly  to 
be  included  in  the  suggestion;  and  the  maid  came  for 
ward  to  conduct  her  and  Dulcie  through  the  intricacies 
of  the  big,  casual,  sprawling  house,  where  rooms  and 
corridors  and  halls  rambled  unexpectedly  and  irrele- 

294 


FORELAND  FARMS 


vantly  in  every  direction,  and  one  vista  seemed  to  ter 
minate  in  another. 

When  they  had  disappeared,  the  Barres  family 
turned  to  inspect  its  son  and  heir  with  habitual  and 
humorous  insouciance,  commenting  frankly  upon  his 
personal  appearance  and  concluding  that  his  health 
still  remained  all  that  could  be  desired  by  the  most  so 
licitous  of  parents  and  sisters. 

"There  are  rods  already  rigged  up  in  the  work 
room,"  remarked  his  father,  "if  you  and  your  guests 
care  to  try  a  dry-fly  this  evening.  As  for  me,  you'll 
find  me  somewhere  around  the  upper  lake,  if  you  care 
to  look  for  me " 

He  fished  out  of  his  pocket  a  bewildering  tangle  of 
fine  mist-leaders,  and,  leisurely  disentangling  them, 
strolled  toward  the  porch,  still  talking : 

"There's  only  one  fly  they  deign  to  notice,  now — 
a  dust-coloured  midge  tied  in  reverse  with  no  hackle, 

no  tinsel,  a  May-fly  tail,  and  barred  canary  wing " 

He  nodded  wisely  over  his  shoulder  at  his  son  and 
Westmore,  as  though  sharing  with  them  a  delightful 
secret  of  world-wide  importance,  and  continued  on 
toward  the  porch,  serenely  interested  in  his  tangled 
leaders. 

Garret  glanced  at  his  mother  and  sister;  they  both 
laughed.  He  said: 

"Dad  is  one  of  those  rarest  of  modern  beings,  a  gen 
uine  angler  of  the  old  school.  After  all  the  myriad 
trout  and  salmon  he  has  caught  in  a  career  devoted  to 
fishing,  the  next  fish  he  catches  gives  him  just  as  fine 
a  thrill  as  did  the  very  first  one  he  ever  hooked !  It's 
quite  wonderful,  isn't  it,  mother?" 

"It's  probably  what  keeps  him  so  youthful,"  re 
marked  Westmore.  "The  thing  to  do  is  to  have  some 
thing  to  do.  That's  the  elixir  of  youth.  Look  at 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


your  mother,  Garry.  She's  had  a  busy  handful  bring 
ing  you  up!" 

Garret  looked  at  his  slender,  attractive  mother  and 
laughed  again: 

"Is  that  what  keeps  you  so  young  and  pretty, 
mother? — looking1  after  me?" 

"Alas,  Garry,  I'm  over  forty,  and  I  look  it!" 

"Do  you? — you  sweet  little  thing!"  he  interrupted, 
picking  her  up  suddenly  from  the  floor  and  marching 
proudly  around  the  room  with  her.  "Gaze  upon  my 
mother,  Jim!  Isn't  she  cunning?  Isn't  she  the  smart 
est  little  thing  in  America  ?  Behave  yourself,  mother ! 
Your  grateful  son  is  showing  you  off  to  the  apprecia 
tive  young  gentleman  from  New  York " 

"You're  ridiculous !    Jim !    Make  him  put  me  down !" 

But  her  tall  son  swung  her  to  his  shoulder  and  placed 
her  high  on  the  mantel  shelf  over  the  huge  fireplace; 
where  she  sat  beside  the  clock,  charming,  resentful, 
but  helpless,  her  spurred  boots  dangling  down. 

"Come  on,  Lee !"  cried  her  brother,  "I'm  going  to 
put  you  up  beside  her.  That  mantel  needs  ornamental 
bric-a-brac  and  objets  d'art " 

Lee  turned  to  escape,  but  her  brother  cornered  and 
caught  her,  and  swung  her  high,  seating  her  beside  his 
indignant  mother. 

"Just  as  though  we  were  two  Angora  kittens,"  re 
marked  Lee,  sidling  along  the  stone  shelf  toward  her 
mother.  Then  she  glanced  out  through  the  open  front 
door.  "Lift  us  down,  quick,  Garry.  You'd  better! 
The  horses  are  in  the  flower  beds  and  there'll  be  no 
more  bouquets  for  the  table  in  another  minute!" 

So  he  lifted  them  off  the  mantel  and  they  hastily 
departed,  each  administering  correction  with  her  rid 
ing  crop  as  she  dodged  past  him  and  escaped. 

"If  your  guests  want  horses  you  know  where  to  find 
296 


FORELAND  FARMS 


them!"  called  back  his  sister  from  the  porch.  And 
presently  she  and  his  mother,  securely  mounted,  went 
cantering  away  across  country,  where  grass  and  fern 
and  leaf  and  blossom  were  glistening  in  the  rising 
breeze,  weighted  down  with  diamond  drops  of  rain. 

Westmore  walked  leisurely  toward  his  quarters,  to 
freshen  up  and  don  knickers.  Garret  followed  him  into 
the  west  wing,  whistling  contentedly  under  his  breath, 
inspecting  each  remembered  object  with  great  content 
as  he  passed,  nodding  smilingly  to  the  servants  he  en 
countered,  lingering  on  the  landing  to  acknowledge  the 
civilities  of  the  ancient  family  cat,  who  recognised  him 
with  effusion  but  coyly  fled  the  advances  of  Westmore, 
ignoring  all  former  and  repeated  introductions. 

Their  rooms  adjoined  and  they  conversed  through 
the  doorway  while  engaged  in  ablutions. 

Presently,  from  behind  his  sheer  sash-curtains,  West- 
more  caught  sight  of  Thessalie  on  the  west  terrace  be 
low.  She  wore  a  shell-pink  frock  and  a  most  distract- 
ingly  pretty  hat;  and  he  hurried  his  dressing  as  much 
as  he  could  without  awaking  Garret's  suspicions. 

A  few  minutes  later,  radiant  in  white  flannels,  he 
appeared  on  the  terrace,  breathing  rather  fast  but 
wreathed  in  persuasive  smiles. 

"I  know  this  place;  I'll  take  you  for  a  walk  where 
you  won't  get  your  shoes  wet.  Shall  I  ?"  he  suggested, 
with  all  his  guile  an  cunning  quite  plain  to  Thessalie, 
and  his  purpose  perfectly  transparent  to  her  smiling 
eyes. 

But  she  consented  prettily,  and  went  with  him  with 
out  demurring,  picking  her  way  over  the  stepping-stone 
walk  with  downcast  gaze  and  the  trace  of  a  smile  on 
her  lips — a  smile  as  delicately  indefinable  as  the  fancy 
which  moved  her  to  accept  this  young  man's  headlong 
advances — which  had  recognized  them  and  accepted 

297 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


them  from  the  first.  But  why,  she  did  not  even  yet 
understand. 

"Agreeable  weather,  isn't  it?"  said  Westmore,  fatu 
ously  revealing  his  present  paucity  of  ideas  apart  from 
those  which  concerned  the  wooing  of  her.  And  he  was 
an  intelligent  young  man  at  that,  and  a  sculptor  of 
attainment,  too.  But  now,  in  his  infatuated  head, 
there  remained  room  only  for  one  thought,  the  thought 
of  this  girl  who  walked  so  demurely  and  daintily  be 
side  him  over  the  flat,  grass-set  stepping  stones  toward 
the  three  white  pines  on  the  little  hill. 

For  it  had  been  something  or  other  at  first  sight  with 
Westmore — love,  perhaps — anyway  that  is  what  he 
called  the  mental  chaos  which  now  disorganised  him. 
And  it  was  certain  that  something  happened  to  him  the 
first  time  he  laid  eyes  on  Thessalie  Dunois.  He  knew 
it,  and  she  could  not  avoid  seeing  it,  so  entirely  naive 
his  behaviour,  so  utterly  guileless  his  manoeuvres,  so 
direct,  unfeigned  and  childish  his  methods  of  approach. 

At  moments  she  felt  nervous  and  annoyed  by  his 
behaviour;  at  other  times  apprehensive  and  helpless, 
as  though  she  were  responsible  for  something  that  did 
not  know  how  to  take  care  of  itself — something  im 
mature,  irrational,  and  entirely  at  her  mercy.  And  it 
may  have  been  the  feminine  response  to  this  increasing 
sense  of  obligation — the  confused  instinct  to  guide,  ad 
monish  and  protect — that  began  being  the  matter  with 
her. 

Anyway,  from  the  beginning  the  man  had  a  certain 
fascination  for  her,  unwillingly  divined  on  her  part,  yet 
specifically  agreeable  even  to  the  point  of  exhilaration. 
Also,  somehow  or  other,  the  girl  realised  he  had  a  brain. 

And  yet  he  was  a  pitiably  hopeless  case;  for  even 
now  he  was  saying  such  things  as: 

"Are  you  quite  sure  that  your  feet  are  dry?  I 
298  " 


FORELAND  FARMS 


should  never  forgive  myself,  Thessa,  if  you  took  cold. 
.  .  .  Are  you  tired?  .  .  .  How  wonderful  it  is  to  be 
here  alone  with  you,  and  strive  to  interpret  the  mystery 
of  your  mind  and  heart!  Sit  here  under  the  pines. 
I'll  spread  my  coat  for  you.  .  .  .  Nature  is  wonder 
ful,  isn't  it,  Thessa?" 

And  when  she  gravely  consented  to  seat  herself  he 
dropped  recklessly  onto  the  wet  pine  needles  at  her 
feet,  and  spoke  with  imbecile  delight  again  of  nature 
— of  how  wonderful  were  its  protean  manifestations, 
and  how  its  beauties  were  not  meant  to  be  enjoyed 
alone  but  in  mystic  communion  with  another  who  un 
derstood. 

It  was  curious,  too,  but  this  stuff  seemed  to  appeal 
to  her,  some  commonplace  chord  within  her  evidently 
responding.  She  sighed  and  looked  at  the  mountains. 
They  really  were  miracles  of  colour — masses  of  pur 
est  cobalt,  now,  along  the  horizon. 

But  perhaps  the  trite  things  they  uttered  did  not 
really  matter;  probably  it  made  no  difference  to  them 
what  they  said.  And  even  if  he  had  murmured: 
"There  are  milestones  along  the  road  to  Dover,"  she 
might  have  responded:  "There  was  an  old  woman 
who  lived  in  a  shoe";  and  neither  of  them  would  have 
heard  anything  at  all  except  the  rapid,  confused,  and 
voiceless  conversation  of  two  youthful  human  hearts 
beating  out  endless  questions  and  answers  that  never 
moved  their  smiling  lips.  There  was  the  mystery,  if 
any — the  constant  wireless  current  under  the  haphaz 
ard  flow  of  words. 

There  was  no  wind  in  the  pines ;  meadow  and  pas 
ture,  woodland  and  swale  stretched  away  at  their  feet 
to  the  distant,  dark-blue  hills.  And  all  around  them 
hung  the  rain-washed  fragrance  of  midsummer  under 
a  still,  cloudless  sky. 

299 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"It  seems  impossible  that  there  can  be  war  anywhere 
in  the  world,"  she  said. 

"You  know,"  he  began,  "it's  getting  on  my  nerves 
the  way  those  swine  from  the  Rhine  are  turning  this 
decent  green  world  into  a  bloody  wallow!  Unless  we 
do  something  about  it  pretty  soon,  I  think  I'll  go 
over." 

She  looked  up: 

"Where?" 

"To  France." 

She  remained  silent  for  a  while,  merely  lifting  her 
dark  eyes  to  him  at  intervals ;  then  she  grew  preoc 
cupied  with  other  thoughts  that  left  her  brows  bent 
slightly  inward  and  her  mouth  very  grave. 

He  gazed  reflectively  out  over  the  fields  and  woods: 

"Yes,  I  can't  stand  it  much  longer,"  he  mused  aloud. 

"What  would  you  do  there?"  she  inquired. 

"Anything.  I  could  drive  a  car.  But  if  they'll 
take  me  in  some  Canadian  unit — or  one  of  the  Foreign 
Legions — it  would  suit  me.  .  .  .  You  know  a  man  can't 
go  on  just  living  in  the  world  while  this  beastly  busi 
ness  continues — can't  go  on  eating  and  sleeping  and 
shaving  and  dressing  as  though  half  of  civilisation  were 
not  rolling  in  agony  and  blood,  stabbed  through  and 
through " 

His  voice  caught — he  checked  himself  and  slowly 
passed  his  hand  over  his  smoothly  shaven  face. 

"Those  splendid  poilus,"  he  said ;  "where  they  stand 
we  Americans  ought  to  be  standing,  too.  .  .  .  God 
knows  why  we  hesitate.  ...  I  can't  tell  you  what  we 
think.  .  .  .  Some  of  us — don't  agree — with  the  Ad 
ministration." 

His  jaws  snapped  on  the  word ;  he  stared  out  through 
the  sunshine  at  the  swallows,  now  skimming  the  uncut 
hay  fields  in  their  gusty  evening  flight. 

300 


FORELAND  FARMS 


"Are  you  really  going?"  she  asked,  at  length. 

"Yes.  I'll  wait  a  little  while  longer  to  see  what  my 
country  is  going  to  do.  If  it  doesn't  stir  during  the 
next  month  or  two,  I  shall  go.  I  think  Garry  will  go, 
too." 

She  nodded. 

"Of   course,"  he   remarked,   "we'd   prefer   our   own 

flag,  Garry  and  I.     But  if  it  is  to  remain  furled " 

He  shrugged,  picked  a  spear  of  grass,  and  sat  brooding 
and  breaking  it  into  tiny  pieces. 

"The  only  thing  that  troubles  me,"  he  went  on  pres 
ently,  keeping  his  gaze  riveted  on  his  busy  fingers,  "the 
only  thing  that  worries  me  is  you !" 

"Me?"  she  exclaimed  softly.  And  an  inexplicable 
little  thrill  shot  through  her. 

"You,"  he  repeated.     "You  worry  me  to  death." 

She  considered  him  a  moment,  her  lips  parted  as 
though  she  were  about  to  say  something,  but  it  re 
mained  unsaid,  and  a  slight  colour  came  into  her  cheeks. 

"What  am  I  to  do  about  you?"  he  went  on,  appar 
ently  addressing  the  blade  of  grass  he  was  staring  at. 
"I  can't  leave  you  as  matters  stand." 

She  said: 

"Please,  you  are  not  responsible  for  me,  are  you?" 
And  tried  to  laugh,  but  scarcely  smiled. 

"I  want  to  be,"  he  muttered.  "I  desire  to  be  en 
tirely " 

"Thank  you.  You  have  been  more  than  kind.  And 
very  soon  I  hope  I  shall  be  on  happy  terms  with  my 
own  Government  again.  Then  your  solicitude  should 
cease." 

"If  your  Government  listens  to  reason " 

"Then  I  also  could  go  to  France!"  she  interrupted. 
"Merely  to  think  of  it  excites  me  beyond  words!" 

He  looked  up  quickly: 

301 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"You  wish  to  go  back?" 

"Of  course!" 

"Why?" 

"How  can  you  ask  that !  If  you  had  been  a  dis 
graced  exile  as  I  have  been,  as  I  still  am — and  falsely 
accused  of  shameful  things — annoyed,  hounded,  black 
mailed,  offered  bribes,  constantly  importuned  to  be 
come  what  I  am  not — a  traitor  to  my  own  people — 
would  you  not  be  wildly  happy  to  be  proven  innocent? 
Would  you  not  be  madly  impatient  to  return  and  prove 
your  devotion  to  your  own  land?" 

"I  understand,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Of  course  you  understand.  Do  you  imagine  that 
I,  a  French  girl,  would  have  remained  here  in  shame 
ful  security  if  I  could  have  gone  back  to  France  and 
helped?  I  would  have  done  anything — anything,  I 
tell  you — scrubbed  the  floors  of  hospitals,  worked  my 
fingers  to  the  bone " 

"I'll  wait  till  you  go,"  he  said.  .  .  .  "They'll  clear 
your  record  very  soon,  I  expect.  I'll  wait.  And  we'll 
go  together.  Shall  we,  Thessa?" 

But  she  had  not  seemed  to  hear  him;  her  dark  eyes 
grew  remote,  her  gaze  swept  the  sapphire  distance. 
It  was  his  hand  laid  lightly  over  hers  that  aroused  her, 
and  she  withdrew  her  fingers  with  a  frown  of  remon 
strance. 

"Won't  you  let  me  speak?"  he  said.  "Won't  you 
let  me  tell  you  what  my  heart  tells  me?" 

She  shook  her  head  slowly: 

"I  don't  desire  to  hear  yet — I  don't  know  where  my 
own  heart — or  even  my  mind  is — or  what  I  think  about 
— anything.  Please  be  reasonable."  She  stole  a  look 
at  him  to  see  how  he  was  taking  it,  and  there  was  con 
cern  enough  in  her  glance  to  give  him  a  certain  amount 
of  hope  had  he  noticed  it. 

302 


FORELAND  FARMS 


"You  like  me,  Thessa,  don't  you  ?"  he  urged. 

"Have  I  not  admitted  it?  Do  you  know  that  you 
are  becoming  a  serious  responsibility  to  me?  You 
worry  me,  too !  You  are  like  a  boy  with  all  your  emo 
tions  reflected  on  your  features  and  every  thought  per 
fectly  unconcealed  and  every  impulse  followed  by  un- 
considered  behaviour. 

"Be  reasonable.  I  have  asked  it  a  hundred  times 
of  you  in  vain.  I  shall  ask  it,  probably,  innumerable 
times  before  you  comply  with  my  request.  Don't  show 
so  plainly  that  you  imagine  yourself  in  love.  It  em 
barrasses  me,  it  annoys  Garry,  and  I  don't  know  what 
his  family  will  think " 

"But  if  I  am  in  love,  why  not " 

"Does  one  advertise  all  one's  most  intimate  and  se 
cret  and — and  sacred  emotions?"  she  interrupted  in 
sudden  and  breathless  annoyance.  "It  is  not  the  way 
that  successful  courtship  is  conducted,  I  warn  you! 
It  is  not  delicate,  it  is  not  considerate,  it  is  not  sen 
sible.  .  .  .  And  I  do  want  you  to — to  be  always — - 
sensible  and  considerate.  I  want  to  like  you." 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  sort  of  dazed  way : 

"I'll  try  to  please  you,"  he  said.  "But  it  seems  to 
confuse  me — being  so  suddenly  bowled  over — a  thing 
like  that  rather  knocks  a  man  out — so  unexpected,  you 
know ! — and  there  isn't  much  use  pretending,"  he  went 
on  excitedly.  "I  can't  see  anybody  else  in  the  world 
except  you!  I  can't  think  of  anybody  else!  I'm 
madly  in  love — blindly,  desperately " 

"Oh,  please,  please!19  she  remonstrated.  "I'm  not 
a  girl  to  be  taken  by  storm!  I've  seen  too  much — 
lived  too  much!  I'm  not  a  Tzigane  to  be  galloped 
alongside  of  and  swung  to  a  man's  saddle-bow !  Also, 
I  shall  tell  you  one  thing  more.  Happiness  and  laugh- 

303 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


ter  are  necessities  to  me !  And  they  seem  to  be  becom 
ing  extinct  in  you." 

"Hang  it!"  he  demanded  tragically,  "how  can  I 
laugh  when  I'm  in  love!" 

At  that  a  sudden,  irresponsible  little  peal  of  laugh 
ter  parted  her  lips. 

"Oh,  dear !"  she  said,  "you  are  funny !  Is  it  a  mat 
ter  of  prayer  and  fasting,  then,  this  gloomy  sentiment 
which  you  say  you  entertain  for  me?  I  don't  know 
whether  to  be  flattered  or  vexed — you  are  so  funny!" 
And  her  laughter  rang  out  again,  clear  and  uncon 
trolled. 

The  girl  was  quite  irresistible  in  her  care-free  gai 
ety;  her  lovely  face  and  delicious  laughter  no  man 
could  utterly  withstand,  and  presently  a  faint  grin 
became  visible  on  his  features. 

"Now,"  she  cried  gaily,  "you  are  becoming  human 
and  not  a  Grecian  mask  or  a  gargoyle!  Remain  so, 
mon  ami,  if  you  expect  me  to  wish  you  good  luck 

in  your  love — your  various  affairs "  She  blushed 

as  she  checked  herself.  But  he  said  very  quickly: 

"Will  you  wish  me  luck,  Thessa,  in  my  various  love 
affairs?" 

"How  many  have  you  on  hand  ?" 

"Exactly  one.  Do  you  wish  me  a  sporting  chance? 
Do  you,  Thessa?" 

"Why— yes " 

"Will  you  wish  me  good  luck  in  my  courtship  of 
you?" 

The  quick  colour  again  swept  her  cheeks  at  that, 
but  she  laughed  defiantly: 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  wish  you  luck  in  that,  also. 
Only  remember  this — whether  you  win  or  lose  you  must 
laugh.  That  is  good  sportsmanship.  Do  you  prom 
ise?  Very  well!  Then  I  wish  you  the  best  of  luck 

304* 


FORELAND  FARMS 


in  your — various — courtships  !  And  may  the  girl  you 
win  at  least  know  how  to  laugh!" 

"She  certainly  does,"  he  said  so  naively  that  they 
both  gave  way  to  laughter  again,  finding  each  other 
delightfully  absurd. 

"It's  the  key  to  my  heart,  laughter — in  case  you  are 
looking  for  the  key,"  she  said  daringly.  "The  world 
is  a  grim  scaffold,  mon  ami ;  mount  it  gaily  and  go 
to  the  far  gods  laughing.  Tell  me,  is  there  a  better 
way  to  go?" 

"No;  it's  the  right  way,  Thessa.  I  shan't  be  a 
gloom  any  more.  Come  on;  let's  walk!  What  if  you 
do  get  your  bally  shoes  wet!  I'm  through  mooning 
and  fussing  and  worrying  over  you,  young  lady! 
You're  as  sturdy  and  vigorous  as  I  am.  After  all, 
it's  a  comrade  a  man  wants  in  the  world — not  a  white 
mouse  in  cotton  batting!  Come!  Are  you  going  for 
a  brisk  walk  across  country?  Or  are  you  a  white 
mouse  ?" 

She  stood  up  in  her  dainty  shoes  and  frail  gown 
and  cast  a  glance  of  hurt  reproach  at  him. 

"Don't  be  brutal,"  she  said.  "I'm  not  dressed  to 
climb  trees  and  fences  with  you." 

"You  won't  come?" 

Their  eyes  met  in  silent  conflict  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  she  said:  "Please  don't  make  me.  .  .  .  It's  such 
a  darling  gown,  Jim." 

A  wave  of  deep  happiness  enveloped  him  and  he 
laughed:  "All  right,"  he  said,  "I  won't  ask  you  to 
spoil  your  frock !"  And  he  spread  his  coat  on  the  pine 
needles  for  her  once  more. 

She  considered  the  situation  for  a  few  moments  be 
fore  she  sat  down.  But  she  did  seat  herself. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "we  are  going  to  discuss  a  situa 
tion.  This  is  the  situation :  I  am  deeply  in  love.  And 

305 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


you're  quite  right,  it's  no  funeral;  it's  a  joyous  thing 
to  be  in  love.  It's  a  delight,  a  gaiety,  a  happy  en 
chantment.  Isn't  it?" 

She  cast  a  rather  shy  and  apprehensive  glance  at 
him,  but  nodded  slightly. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "I'm  in  love,  and  I'm  happy 
and  proud  to  be  in  love.  What  I  wish  then,  naturally, 
is  marriage,  a  home,  children " 

"Please,  Jim!" 

"But  I  can't  have  'em!  Why?  Because  I'm  going 
to  France.  And  the  girl  I  wish  to  marry  is  going  also. 
And  while  I  bang  away  at  the  boche  she  makes  herself 
useful  in  canteens,  rest-houses,  hospitals,  orphanages, 
everywhere,  in  fact,  where  she  is  needed." 

"Yes." 

"And  after  it's  all  over — all  over — and  ended " 

"Yes?" 

"Then — then  if  she  finds  out  that  she  loves  me " 

"Yes,  Jim — if  she  finds  that  out.  .  .  .  And  thank 
you  for — asking  me — so  sweetly."  .  .  .  She  turned 
sharply  and  looked  out  over  a  valley  suddenly  blurred. 

For  it  had  been  otherwise  with  her  in  years  gone 
by,  and  men  had  spoken  then  quite  as  plainly  but  dif 
ferently.  Only  d'Eblis,  burnt  out,  done  for,  and  ob 
sessed,  had  wearily  and  unwillingly  advanced  that  far. 
.  .  .  And  Ferez,  too;  but  that  was  unthinkable  of  a 
creature  in  whom  virtue  and  vice  were  of  the  same  vi 
rus. 

Looking  blindly  out  over  the  valley  she  said: 

"If  my  Government  deals  justly  with  me,  then  I 
shall  go  to  France  with  you  as  your  comrade.  If.  I 
ever  find  that  I  love  you  I  will  be  your  wife.  .  .  .  Un 
til  then "  She  stretched  out  her  hand,  not  look 
ing  around  at  him;  and  they  exchanged  a  quick,  firm 
clasp. 

306 


FORELAND  FARMS 


Ard  so  matters  progressed  between  these  two — 
rather  ominously  for  Barres,  in  case  he  entertained 
any  really  serious  sentiments  in  regard  to  Thessalie. 
And,  recently,  he  had  been  vaguely  conscious  that  he 
entertained  something  or  other  concerning  the  girl 
which  caused  him  to  look  with  slight  amazement  and 
unsympathetic  eyes  upon  the  all  too  obvious  behaviour 
of  his  comrade  Westmore. 

At  present  he  was  standing  in  the  summer  house 
which  terminated  the  blossoming  tunnel  of  the  rose  ar 
bour,  watching  water  falling  into  a  stone  basin  from 
the  fishy  mouth  of  a  wall  fountain,  and  wondering 
where  Thessalie  and  Westmore  had  gone. 

Dulcie,  in  a  thin  white  frock  and  leghorn  hat,  roam 
ing  entranced  and  at  hazard  over  lawn  and  through 
shrubbery  and  garden,  encountered  him  there,  still 
squinting  abstractedly  at  the  water  spout. 

It  was  the  first  time  the  girl  had  seen  him  since  their 
arrival  at  Foreland  Farms.  And  now,  as  she  paused 
under  the  canopy  of  fragrant  rain-drenched  roses  and 
looked  at  this  man  who  had  made  all  this  possible  for 
her,  she  suddenly  felt  the  change  within  herself,  fit 
ting  her  for  it  all — a  subtle  metamorphosis  complet 
ing  itself  within  her — the  final  accomplishment  of  a 
transmutation,  deep,  radical,  permanent. 

For  her,  the. stark,  starved  visage  which  Life  had 
worn  had  relaxed;  in  the  grim,  forbidding  wall  which 
had  closed  her  horizon,  a  door  opened,  showing  a  cor 
ner  of  a  world  where  she  knew,  somehow,  she  belonged. 

And  in  her  heart,  too,  a  door  seemed  to  open,  and 
her  youthful  soul  stepped  out  of  it,  naked,  fearless, 
quite  certain  of  itself  and,  for  the  first  time  during 
their  brief  and  earthly  partnership,  quite  certain  of 
the  body  wherein  it  dwelt. 

He  was  thinking  of  Thessalie  when  Dulcie  came 
307 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


up  and  stood  beside  him,  looking  down  into  the  water 
where  a  few  goldfish  swam. 

"Well,  Sweetness,"  he  said,  brightening,  "you  look 
very  wonderful  in  white,  with  that  big  hat  on  your  very 
enchanting  red  hair.'* 

"I  feel  both  wonderful  and  enchanted,"  she  said, 
lifting  her  eyes.  "I  shall  live  in  the  country  some  day." 

"Really?"  he  said  smiling. 

"Yes,  when  I  earn  enough  money.  Do  you  remem 
ber  the  crazy  way  Strindberg  rolls  around?  Well,  I 
feel  like  doing  it  on  that  lawn." 

"Go  ahead  and  do  it,"  he  urged.  But  she  only 
laughed  and  chased  the  goldfish  around  the  basin  with 
gentle  fingers. 

"Dulcie,"  he  said,  "you're  unfolding,  you're  blos 
soming,  you're  developing  feminine  snap  and  go  and 
pep  and  je-ne-sais-quoi." 

"You're  teasing.  But  I  believe  I'm  very  feminine 
— and  mature — though  you  don't  think  so." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you're  exactly  at  an  age  called 
well-preserved,"  he  said,  laughing.  He  took  her  hands 
and  drew  her  up  to  confront  him.  "You're  not  too 
old  to  have  me  as  a  playmate,  Sweetness,  are  you?" 

She  seemed  to  be  doubtful. 

"What!  Nonsense!  And  you're  not  too  old  to  be 
bullied  and  coaxed  and  petted " 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"And  you're  not  too  old  to  pose  for  me " 

She  grew  pink  and  looked  down  at  the  submerged 
goldfish.  And,  keeping  her  eyes  there: 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you,"  she  said,  "how  much  longer 
you  think  you  would  require  me — that  way." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  she  looked  at  him  out 
of  her  frank  grey  eyes. 

"You  know  I'll  do  what  you  wish,"  she  said.     "And 
308 


FORELAND  FARMS 


I  know  it  is  quite  all  right.  .  .  ."  She  smiled  at  him. 
"I  belong  to  you:  you  made  me.  .  .  .  And  you  know 
all  about  me.  So  you  ought  to  use  me  as  you  wish." 

"You  don't  want  to  pose?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  except " 

"Very  well." 

"Are  you  annoyed?" 

"No,  Sweetness.     It's  all  right." 

"You  are  annoyed — disappointed!  And  I  won't 
have  it.  I — I  couldn't  stand  it — to  have  you  dis 
pleased " 

He  said  pleasantly: 

"I'm  not  displeased,  Dulcie.  And  there's  no  use 
discussing  it.  If  you  have  the  slightest  feeling  that 
way,  when  we  go  back  to  town  I'll  do  things  like  the 
Arethusa  from  somebody  else " 

"Please  don't!"  she  exclaimed  in  such  naive  alarm 
that  he  began  to  laugh  and  she  blushed  vividly. 

"Oh,  you  are  feminine,  all  right!"  he  said.  "If  it 
isn't  to  be  you  it  isn't  to  be  anybody." 

"I  didn't  mean  that.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  did!" 

"Oh,  Dulcie!  Shame!  You  jealous! — even  to  the 
verge  of  sacrificing  your  own  feelings " 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  I'd  rather  you  used 
me  for  your  Arethusa.  You  know,"  she  added  wist 
fully,  "that  we  began  it  together." 

"Right,  Sweetness.  And  we'll  finish  it  together  or 
not  at  all.  Are  you  satisfied?" 

She  smiled,  sighed,  nodded.  He  released  her  lovely, 
childlike  hands  and  she  walked  to  the  doorway  of  the 
summer  house  and  looked  out  over  the  wall-bed,  where 
tall  thickets  of  hollyhock  and  blue  larkspur  stretched 
away  in  perspective  toward  a  grove  of  trees  and  a  lit 
tle  pond  beyond. 

His  painter's  eye,  already  busy  with  the  beauty  of 
309 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


her  face  and  figure  against  the  riot  of  flowers,  and 
almost  mechanically  transposing  both  into  terms  of 
colour  and  value,  went  blind  suddenly  as  she  turned 
and  looked  at  him. 

And  for  the  first  time — perhaps  with  truer  vision 
— he  became  aware  of  what  else  this  young  girl  was 
besides  a  satisfying  combination  of  tint  and  contour 
— this  lithe  young  thing  palpitating  with  life — this 
slender,  gently  breathing  girl  with  her  grey  eyes  meet 
ing  his  so  candidly — this  warm  young  human  being 
who  belonged  more  truly  in  the  living  scheme  of  things 
than  she  did  on  painted  canvas  or  in  marble. 

From  this  unexpected  angle,  and  suddenly,  he  found 
himself  viewing  her  for  the  first  time — not  as  a  play 
thing,  not  as  a  petted  model,  not  as  an  object  appeal 
ing  to  his  charity,  not  as  an  experiment  in  altruism 
— nor  sentimentally  either,  nor  as  a  wistful  child  with 
out  a  childhood. 

Perhaps,  to  him,  she  had  once  been  all  of  these.  He 
looked  at  her  with  other  eyes  now,  beginning,  possibly, 
to  realise  something  of  the  terrific  responsibility  he 
was  so  lightly  assuming. 

He  got  up  from  his  bench  and  went  over  to  her; 
and  the  girl  turned  a  trifle  pale  with  excitement  and 
delight. 

"Why  did  you  come  to  me?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Did  you  know  I  was  trying  to  make  you  get  up 
and  come  to  me?" 

"What?" 

"Yes !  Isn't  it  curious  ?  I  looked  at  you  and  kept 
thinking,  'I  want  you  to  get  up  and  come  to  me!  I 
want  you  to  come!  I  zvant  you!'  And  suddenly  you 
got  up  and  came!" 

He  looked  at  her  out  of  curious,  unsmiling  eyes: 
310 


FORELAND  FARMS 


"It's  your  turn,  after  all,  Dulcie." 

"How  is  it  my  turn?" 

"I  drew  you — in  the  beginning,"  he  said  slowly. 

There  was  a  silence.  Then,  abruptly,  her  heart 
began  to  beat  very  rapidly,  scaring  her  dumb  with  its 
riotous  behaviour.  When  at  length  her  consternation 
subsided  and  her  irregular  breathing  became  composed, 
she  said,  quite  calmly: 

"You  and  all  that  you  are  and  believe  in  and  care 
for  very  naturally  attracted  me — drew  me  one  eve 
ning  to  your  open  door.  ...  It  will  always  be  the 
same — you,  and  what  of  life  and  knowledge  you  rep 
resent — will  never  fail  to  draw  me." 

"But — though  I  am  just  beginning  to  divine  it — 
you  also  drew  me,  Dulcie." 

"How  could  that  be?" 

"You  did.  You  do  still.  I  am  just  waking  up  to 
that  fact.  And  that  starts  me  wondering  what  I'd 
do  without  you." 

"You  don't  have  to  do  without  me,"  she  said,  in 
stinctively  laying  her  hand  over  her  heart ;  it  was  beat 
ing  so  hard  and,  she  feared,  so  loud.  "You  can  always 
have  me  when  you  wish.  You  know  that." 

"For  a  while,  yes.     But  some  day,  when " 

"Always !" 

He  laughed  without  knowing  why. 

"You'll  marry  some  day,  Sweetness,"  he  insisted. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  yes  you  will " 

"No !" 

"Why?" 

But  she  only  looked  away  and  shook  her  head.  And 
the  silent  motion  of  dissent  gave  him  an  odd  sense  of 
relief. 


311 


XXIII 

A    LION    IN    THE    PATH 

WITH  the  decline  of  day  came  enough  of  a 
chill  to  spin  a  delicate  cobweb  of  mist  across 
the  country  and  cover  forests  and  hills  with 
a  bluish  bloom. 

The  sunset  had  become  a  splashy  crimson  affair,  per 
haps  a  bit  too  theatrical.  In  the  red  blaze  Thessalie 
and  Westmore  came  wandering1  down  from  the  three 
pines  on  the  hill,  and  found  Bar  res  on  the  lawn  scowl 
ing  at  the  celestial  conflagration  in  the  west,  and  Dul- 
cie  seated  near  on  the  fountain  rim,  silent,  distrait, 
watching  the  scarlet  ripples  spreading  from  the  plash 
ing  central  jet. 

"You  can't  paint  a  thing  like  that,  Garry,'*  re 
marked  Westmore.  Barres  looked  around: 

"I  don't  want  to.     Where  have  you  been,  Thessa?" 

"Under  those  pines  over  there.  We  supposed  you'd 
see  us  and  come  up." 

Barres  glanced  at  her  with  an  inscrutable  expres 
sion;  Dulcie's  grey  eyes  rested  on  Barres.  Thessalie 
walked  over  to  the  reddened  pool. 

"It's  like  a  prophecy  of  blood,  that  water,"  she 
said.  "And  over  there  the  world  is  in  flames." 

"The  Western  World,"  added  Westmore,  "I  hope 
it's  an  omen  that  we  shall  soon  catch  fire.  How  long 
are  you  going  to  wait,  Garry?" 

Barres  started  to  answer*  but  checked  himself,  and 
glanced  across  at  Dulcie  without  knowing  exactly  why. 


A  LION  IN  THE  PATH 


"I  don't  know,"  he  said  irresolutely.  "I'm  fed  up 

now.  .  .  .  But "  he  continued  to  look  vaguely  at 

Dulcie,  as  though  something  of  his  uncertainty  re 
motely  concerned  her. 

"I'm  ready  to  go  over  when  you  are,"  remarked 
Westmore,  placidly  smiling  at  Thessalie,  who  imme 
diately  presented  her  pretty  profile  to  him  and  settled 
down  on  the  fountain  rim  beside  Dulcie. 

"Darling,"  she  said,  "it's  about  time  to  dress.  Are 
you  going  to  wear  that  enchanting  white  affair  we  dis 
covered  at  Mendel's?" 

Barres  senior  came  sauntering  out  of  the  woods  and 
through  the  wall  gate,  switching  a  limber  rod  reflec 
tively.  He  obligingly  opened  his  creel  and  displayed 
half  a  dozen  long,  slim  trout. 

"They  all  took  that  midge  fly  I  described  to  you  this 
afternoon,"  he  said,  with  the  virtuous  satisfaction  of 
all  prophets. 

Everybody  inspected  the  crimson-flecked  fish  while 
Barres  senior  stood  twirling  his  monocle. 

"Are  we  dining  at  home?"  inquired  his  son. 

"I  believe  so.  There  is  a  guest  of  honour,  if  I  recol 
lect — some  fellow  they're  lionising — I  don't  remem 
ber.  .  .  .  And  one  or  two  others — the  Gerhardts,  I 
believe." 

"Then  we'd  better  dress,  I  think,"  said  Thessalie, 
encircling  Dulcie's  waist. 

"Sorry,"  said  Barres  senior,  "hoped  to  take  you 
young  ladies  out  on  the  second  lake  and  let  you  try 
for  a  big  fish  this  evening." 

He  walked  across  the  lawn  beside  them,  switching  his 
rod  as  complacently  as  a  pleased  cat  twitches  its  tail. 

"We'll  try  it  to-morrow  evening,"  he  continued  re 
assuringly,  as  though  all  their  most  passionate  hopes 
had  been  bound  up  in  the  suggested  sport ;  "it's  rather 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


annoying — I  can't  remember  who's  dining  with  us — 
some  celebrated  Irishman — poet  of  sorts — literary 
chap — guest  of  the  Gerhardts — neighbours,  you  know. 
It's  a  nuisance  to  bother  with  dinner  when  the  trout 
rise  only  after  sunset." 

"Don't  you  ever  dine  willingly,  Mr.  Barres,  while 
the  trout  are  rising?"  inquired  Thessalie,  laughing. 

"Never  willingly,"  he  replied  in  a  perfectly  sincere 
voice.  "I  prefer  to  remain  near  the  water  and  have 
a  bit  of  supper  when  I  return."  He  smiled  at  Thes 
salie  indulgently.  "No  doubt  it  amuses  you,  but  I 
wager  that  you  and  little  Miss  Soane  here  will  feel 
exactly  as  I  do  after  you've  caught  your  first  big 
trout." 

They  entered  the  house  together,  followed  by  Garry 
and  Westmore. 

A  dim,  ruddy  glow  still  lingered  in  the  quiet  rooms ; 
every  window  glass  was  still  lighted  by  the  sun's  smoul 
dering  ashes  sinking  in  the  west;  no  lamps  had  yet 
been  lighted  on  the  ground  floor. 

"It's  the  magic  hour  on  the  water,"  Barres  senior 
confided  to  Dulcie,  "and  here  I  am,  doomed  to  a  stiff 
shirt  and  table  talk.  In  other  words,  nailed!"  And 
he  gave  her  a  mysterious,  melancholy,  but  significant 
look  as  though  she  alone  were  really  fitted  to  under 
stand  the  distressing  dilemmas  of  an  angler. 

"Would  it  be  too  late  to  fish  after  dinner?"  ven 
tured  Dulcie.  "I'd  love  to  go  with  you " 

"Would  you,  really!"  he  exclaimed,  warmly  grate 
ful.  "That  is  the  spirit  I  admire  in  a  girl!  It's  hu 
man,  it's  discriminating!  And  yet,  do  you  know,  no 
body  except  myself  in  this  household  seems  to  care 
very  much  about  angling?  And,  actually,  I  don't  be 
lieve  there  is  another  soul  in  this  entire  house  who 


A  LION  IN  THE  PATH 


would  care  to  miss  dinner  for  the  sake  of  landing  the 
finest  trout  in  the  second  lake! — unless  you  would?" 

"I  really  would!"  said  Dulcie,  smiling.  "Please  try 
me,  Mr.  Barres." 

"Indeed,  I  shall!  I'll  give  you  one  of  my  pet  rods, 
too!  I'll " 

The  rich,  metallic  murmur  of  a  temple  gong  broke 
out  in  the  dim  quiet  of  the  house.  It  was  the  dressing 
bell. 

"We'll  talk  it  over  at  dinner — if  they'll  let  me  sit 
by  you,"  whispered  Barres  senior.  And  with  the  smile 
and  the  cautionary  gesture  of  the  true  conspirator,  he 
went  away  in  the  demi-light. 

Thessalie  came  from  the  bay  window,  where  she  had 
been  with  Westmore  and  Garry,  and  she  and  Dulcie 
walked  away  toward  the  staircase  hall,  leisurely  fol 
lowed  by  the  two  men  who,  however,  turned  again  into 
the  western  wing. 

Dulcie  was  the  first  to  reappear  and  descend  the 
stairs  of  the  north  wing — a  willowy  white  shape  in  the 
early  dusk,  slim  as  a  young  spirit  in  the  lamplit  si 
lence. 

Nobody  else  had  come  down;  a  maid  was  turning 
up  a  lamp  here  and  there ;  the  plebeian  family  cat  came 
out  of  the  shadows  from  somewhere  and  made  advances 
as  though  divining  that  this  quiet  stranger  was  a 
friend  to  cats. 

So  Dulcie  stooped  to  pet  her,  then  wandered  on 
through  the  place  and  finally  into  the  music  room,  where 
she  seated  herself  at  the  piano  and  touched  the  keys 
softly  in  the  semi-dusk. 

Among  the  songs — words  and  music — which  her 
mother  had  left  in  manuscript,  was  one  which  she  had 
learned  recently, — "Blue  Eyes" — and  she  played  the 

315 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


air  now,  seated  there  all  alone  in  the  subdued  lamp 
light. 

Presently  people  began  to  appear  from  above — Mrs. 
Barres,  who  motioned  her  not  to  rise,  and  who  seated 
herself  near,  watching  the  girl's  slender  fingers  mov 
ing  on  the  keys ;  then  Lee,  who  came  and  stood  beside 
her,  followed  in  a  few  moments  by  Thessalie  and  the 
two  younger  men. 

"What  is  that  lovely  little  air  you  are  playing?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Barres. 

"It  is  called  'Blue  Eyes,' "  said  Dulcie,  absently. 

"I  have  never  before  heard  it." 

The  girl  looked  up: 

"No,  my  mother  wrote  it." 

After  a  silence: 

"It  is  really  exquisite,"  said  Mrs.  Barres.  "Are 
there  words  to  it?" 

Some  people  had  come  into  the  entrance  hall  be 
yond;  there  was  the  low  whirring  of  an  automobile 
outside. 

"Yes,  my  mother  made  some  verses  for  it,"  replied 
Dulcie. 

"Will  you  sing  them  for  me  after  dinner?" 

"Yes,  I  shall  be  happy  to." 

Mrs.  Barres  turned  to  welcome  her  new  guests,  now 
entering  the  music  room  convoyed  by  Barres  senior,  who 
was  arrayed  in  the  dreaded  "stiff  shirt"  and  already 
indulging  in  "table  talk." 

"They  took,"  he  was  explaining,  "a  midge-fly  with 
no  hackle — Claire,  here  are  the  Gerhardts  and  Mr. 
Skeel!"  And  while  his  wife  welcomed  them  and  intro 
ductions  were  effected,  he  continued  explaining  the  con 
struction  of  the  midge  to  anybody  who  listened. 

At  the  first  mention  of  Murtagh  Skeel's  name,  the 
glances  of  Westmore,  Garry  and  Thessalie  crossed  like 

316 


A  LION  IN  THE  PATH 


lightning,  then  their  attention  became  riveted  on  this 
tall,  graceful,  romantic  looking  man  of  early  middle 
age,  who  was  being  lionised  at  Northbrook. 

The  next  moment  Garry  stepped  back  beside  Dul- 
cie  Soane,  who  had  turned  white  as  a  flower  and  was 
gazing  at  Skeel  as  though  she  had  seen  a  ghost. 

"Do  you  suppose  he  can  be  the  same  man  your 
mother  knew?"  he  whispered,  dropping  his  arm  and 
taking  her  trembling  hand  in  a  firm  clasp. 

"I  don't  know.  ...  I  seem  to  feel  so.  ...  I  can't 
explain  to  you  how  it  pierced  my  heart — the  sound 
of  his  name.  .  .  .  Oh,  Garry! — suppose  it  is  true — 
that  he  is  the  man  my  mother  knew — and  cared  for!" 

Before  he  could  speak,  cocktails  were  served,  and 
Adolf  Gerhardt,  a  large,  bearded,  pompous  man,  en 
gaged  him  in  explosive  conversation: 

"Yes,  this  fellow  Corot  Mandel  is  producing  a  new 
spectacle-play  on  my  lawn  to-morrow  evening.  Your 
family  and  your  guests  are  invited,  of  course.  And 

for  the  dance,  also "  He  included  Dulcie  in  a 

pompous  bow,  finished  his  cocktail  with  another  flour 
ish: 

"You  will  find  my  friend  Skeel  very  attractive,"  he 
went  on.  "You  know  who  he  is? — the  Murtagh  Skeel 
who  writes  those  Irish  poems  of  the  West  Coast — 
and  is  not,  I  believe,  very  well  received  in  England 
just  now — a  matter  of  nationalism — patriotism,  eh? 
Why  should  it  surprise  your  Britisher,  eh? — if  a  gen 
tleman  like  Murtagh  Skeel  displays  no  sympathy  for 
England? — if  a  gentleman  like  my  friend,  Sir  Roger 
Casement,  prefers  to  live  in  Germany?" 

Garry,  under  his  own  roof,  said  pleasantly : 

"It  wouldn't  do  for  us  to  discuss  those  things,  I 
fear,  Mr.  Gerhardt.  And  your  Irish  lion  seems  to 

317 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


be  very  gentle  and  charming.  He  must  be  fascinating 
to  women." 

Gerhardt  threw  up  his  hands : 

"Oh,  Lord!  They  would  like  to  eat  him!  Or  be 
eaten  by  him!  You  know?  It  is  that  way  always 
between  the  handsome  poet  and  the  sex.  Which  eats 
which  is  of  no  consequence,  so  long  as  they  merge. 
Eh?"  And  his  thunderous  laughter  set  the  empty 
glasses  faintly  ringing  on  the  butler's  silver  tray. 

Garry  spoke  to  Mrs.  Gerhardt,  a  large,  pallid, 
slabby  German  who  might  have  been  somebody's 
kitchen  maid,  but  had  been  born  a  von. 

Later,  as  dinner  was  announced,  he  contrived  to 
speak  to  Thessalie  aside: 

"Gerhardt,"  he  whispered,  "doesn't  recognise  you, 
of  course." 

"No ;  I'm  not  at  all  apprehensive." 

"Yet,  it  was  on  his  yacht " 

"He  never  even  looked  twice  at  me.  You  know  what 
he  thought  me  to  be?  Very  well,  he  had  only  social 
ambitions  then.  I  think  that's  all  he  has  now.  You 
see  what  he  got  with  his  Red  Eagle,"  nodding  calmly 
toward  Mrs.  Gerhardt,  who  now  was  being  convoyed 
out  by  the  monocled  martyr  in  the  "stiff  shirt." 

The  others  passed  out  informally ;  Lee  had  slipped 
her  arm  around  Dulcie.  As  Garry  and  Thessalie 
turned  to  follow,  he  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"You  feel  quite  secure,  then,  Thessa?" 

She  halted,  put  her  lips  close  to  his  ear,  unnoticed 
by  those  ahead: 

"Perfectly.  The  Gerhardts  are  what  you  call  fat 
heads — easily  used  by  anybody,  dangerous  to  no  one, 
governed  by  greed  alone,  without  a  knowledge  of  any 
honour  except  the  German  sort.  But  that  Irish 
dreamer  over  there,  lie  is  dangerous!  That  type  al- 

318 


A  LION  IN  THE  PATH 


ways  is.  He  menaces  the  success  of  any  enterprise 
to  which  his  quixotic  mind  turns,  because  it  instantly 
becomes  a  fixed  idea  with  him — an  obsession,  a  mono 
mania  !" 

She  took  his  arm  and  walked  on  beside  him. 

"I  know  that  fascinating,  hot-headed,  lovable  type 
of  mystic  visionary,"  she  said,  "handsome,  roman 
tic,  illogical,  governed  entirely  by  emotion,  not  fickle 
yet  never  to  be  depended  on;  not  faithless,  but  abso 
lutely  irresponsible  and  utterly  ignorant  of  fear!  .  .  . 
My  father  was  that  sort.  Not  the  hunting  cheetah 
Cyril  and  Ferez  pretended.  And  it  was  in  defence  of 
a  woman  that  my  father  died.  .  .  .  Thank  God!" 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Captain  Renoux — the  other  night." 

"I'm  so  glad,  Thessa!" 

She  held  her  flushed  head  high  and  smiled  at  him. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "after  all  it  is  in  my  blood 
to  be  decent." 

The  Gerhardts,  racially  vulgar  and  socially  blunt 
— for  the  inherent  vulgarity  of  the  Teutonic  peoples 
is  an  axiom  among  the  civilised — made  themselves  char 
acteristically  conspicuous  at  the  flower-laden  table; 
but  it  was  on  Murtagh  Skeel  that  all  eyes  became  ulti 
mately  focused  to  the  limit  of  good-breeding.  He  was 
the  lode-star — he  was  the  magnet,  the  vanishing  point 
for  ah1  curiosity,  all  surmises,  all  interest. 

Perfect  breeding,  perfect  unconsciousness  of  self, 
were  his  minted  marks  to  guarantee  the  fineness  of  his 
metal.  He  was  natural  without  effort,  winning  in 
voice,  in  manner,  in  grace  of  mind  and  body,  this  fas 
cinating  Irishman  of  letters — a  charming  listener,  a 
persuasive  speaker,  modest,  light  hearted,  delightfully 
deferential. 

319 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Seated  on  the  right  of  Mrs.  Barres,  his  smiling 
hostess  very  quickly  understood  the  situation  and  made 
it  pleasantly  plain  to  everybody  that  her  guest  of 
honour  was  not  to  be  privately  monopolised. 

So  almost  immediately  all  currents  of  conversation 
flowed  from  all  sides  toward  this  dark-eyed,  handsome 
man,  and  in  return  the  silver-tongued  tide  of  many 
currents — the  Irish  Sea  at  its  sparkling  flood — flowed 
prettily  and  spread  out  from  its  perennial  source  within 
him,  and  washed  and  rippled  gently  over  every  sepa 
rate  dinner  plate,  so  that  nobody  seemed  neglected, 
and  there  was  jetsam  and  beach-combing  for  all. 

And  it  was  inevitable,  presently,  that  Murtagh 
Skeel's  conversation  should  become  autobiographical 
in  some  degree,  and  his  careless,  candid,  persuasive 
phrases  turn  into  little  gemlike  memories.  For  he 
came  ultimately,  of  course,  to  speak  of  Irish  nation 
alism  and  what  it  meant;  of  the  Celt  as  he  had  been 
and  must  remain — utterly  unchanged,  as  long  as  the 
last  Celt  remained  alive  on  earth. 

The  subject,  naturally,  invaded  the  fairy  lore,  wild 
legend  and  lovely  mysticism  of  the  West  Coast;  and 
centred  about  his  own  exquisite  work  of  interpreting  it. 

He  spoke  of  it  very  modestly,  as  his  source  of  in 
spiration,  as  the  inception  of  his  own  creative  work 
in  that  field.  But  always,  through  whatever  he  said, 
rang  low  and  clear  his  passionate  patriotism  and  the 
tmly  motive  which  incited  him  to  creative  effort — his 
longing  for  national  autonomy  and  the  re-gathering 
of  a  scattered  people  in  preparation  for  its  massed 
journey  toward  its  Destiny. 

His  voice  was  musical,  his  words  unconscious  poetry. 
Without  effort,  without  pains,  alas! — without  logic 
— he  held  every  ear  enthralled  there  in  the  soft  candle 
light  and  subdued  glimmer  of  crystal  and  of  silver. 

320 


A  LION  IN  THE  PATH 


His  was  the  magic  of  shadow  and  half-lights,  of 
vague  nuances  and  lost  outlines,  and  the  valued  de 
grees  of  impinging  shade.  No  sharp  contours,  no 
stark,  uncompromising  shapes,  no  brutality  of  raw 
daylight,  and — alas! — no  threat  of  uncompromising 
logic  invaded  his  realm  of  dreamy  demi-lights  and  faded 
fantasies. 

He  reigned  there,  amid  an  enchanted  twilight  of  his 
own  creation,  the  embodiment  of  Irish  romance,  ten 
der,  gay,  sweet-minded,  persuasive,  gallant — and 
tragic,  when,  at  some  unexpected  moment,  the  frail 
veil  of  melancholy  made  his  dark  eyes  less  brilliant. 

All  yielded  to  his  charm — even  the  stuffed  Teutons, 
gorging  gravy ;  all  felt  his  sway  over  mind  and  heart, 
nor  cared  to  analyse  it,  there  in  the  soft  light  of  can 
dles  and  the  scent  of  old-fashioned  flowers. 

There  arose  some  question  concerning  Sir  Roger 
Casement. 

Murtagh  Skeel  spoke  of  him  with  the  pure  enthusi 
asm  of  passionate  belief  in  a  master  by  a  humble  disci 
ple.  And  the  Teutons  grunted  assent. 

The  subject  of  the  war  had  been  politely  avoided, 
yet,  somehow,  it  came  out  that  Murtagh  Skeel  had 
served  in  Britain's  army  overseas,  as  an  enlisted  man 
in  some  Irish  regiment — a  romantic  impulse  of  the 
moment,  involving  a  young  man's  crazy  plan  to  fo 
ment  rebellion  in  India.  Which  little  gem  of  a  me- 
moire  presently  made  the  fact  of  his  exile  self-explan 
atory.  Yet,  he  contrived  that  the  ugly  revelation 
should  end  in  laughter — an  outbreak  of  spontaneous 
mirth  through  which  his  glittering  wit  passed  like 
lightning,  cauterising  the  running  sore  of  treason.  .  .  . 

Coffee  served,  the  diners  drifted  whither  it  suited 
them,  together  or  singly. 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Like  an  errant  spirit,  Dulcie  moved  about  at  haz 
ard  amid  the  softened  lights,  engaged  here,  approached 
there,  pausing,  wandering  on,  nowhere  in  particular, 
yet  ever  listlessly  in  motion. 

Encountering  her  near  the  porch,  Barres  senior  had 
paused  to  whisper  that  there  was  no  hope  for  any  fish 
ing  that  evening;  and  she  had  lingered  to  smile  after 
him,  as,  unreconciled,  he  took  his  stiff-shirted  way 
toward  the  pallid,  bejewelled,  unanimated  mass  of  Mrs. 
Gerhardt,  settled  in  the  widest  armchair  and  absorb 
ing  cordial. 

A  moment  later  the  girl  encountered  Garry.  He 
remained  with  her  for  a  while,  evidently  desiring  to  be 
near  her  without  finding  anything  in  particular  to  say. 
And  when  he,  in  turn,  moved  elsewhere,  obeying  some 
hazy  mandate  of  hospitality,  he  became  conscious  of 
u  reluctance  to  leave  her. 

"Do  you  know,  Sweetness,"  he  said,  lingering,  "that 
you  wear  a  delicate  beauty  to-night  lovelier  than  I 
have  ever  seen  in  you?  You  are  not  only  a  wonderful 
girl,  Dulcie ;  you  are  growing  into  an  adorable  woman." 

The  girl  looked  back  at  him,  blushing  vividly  in  her 
sheer  surprise — watched  him  saunter  away  out  of  her 
silent  sphere  of  influence  before  she  found  any  word 
to  utter — if,  indeed,  she  had  been  seeking  any,  so 
deeply,  so  painfully  sweet  had  sunk  his  words  into 
every  fibre  of  her  untried,  defenceless  youth. 

Now,  as  her  cheeks  cooled,  and  she  came  to  herself 
and  moved  again,  there  seemed  to  grow  around  her  a 
magic  and  faintly  fragrant  radiance  through  which 
she  passed — whither,  she  paid  no  heed,  so  exquisitely 
her  breast  was  thrilling  under  the  hurrying  pulses  of 
her  little  heart.  .  .  .  And  presently  found  herself  on 
the  piano  bench,  quite  motionless,  her  gaze  remote,  her 
fingers  resting  on  the  keys.  .  .  .  And,  after  a  long 


A  LION  IN  THE  PATH 


while,  she  heard  an  old  air  stealing  through  the  si 
lence,  and  her  own  voice, — a  demi-voix — repeating  her 
mother's  words: 


"Were  they  as  wise  as  they  are  blue — 

My  eyes — 

They'd  teach  me  not  to  trust  in  you! — 
If  they  were  wise  as  they  are  blue. 

But  they're  as  blithe  as  they  are  blue — 

My  eyes — 

They  bid  my  heart  rejoice  in  you, 
Because  they're  blithe  as  well  as  blue. 

Believe  and  love !  my  gay  heart  cries ; 
Believe  him  not !  my  mind  replies ; 

What  shall  I  do" 

When  heart  affirms  and  sense  denies 
All  I  reveal  within  my  eyes 

To  you? 

ii 

"If  they  were  black  instead  of  blue — 

My  eyes — 

Perhaps  they'd  prove  unkind  to  you ! 
If  they  were  black  instead  of  blue. 

But  God  designed  them  blithe  and  blue— 

My  eyes — 

Designed  them  to  be  kind  to  you, 
And  made  them  tender,  gay  and  true. 

Believe  me,  love,  no  maid  is  wise 
When  from  the  windows  of  her  eyes, 

Her  heart  looks  through! 
Alas !     My  heart,  to  its  surprise, 
Has  learned  to  look;  and  now  it  sighs 

For  you !" 

She   became   conscious    of    somebody    near,    as    she 
ended.     She   turned   and   saw  Murtagh   Skeel   at  her 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


elbow — saw  his  agitated,  ashen  face — looked  beyond 
him  and  discovered  other  people  gathered  in  the  tinted 
light  beyond,  listening;  then  she  lifted  her  clear,  still 
gaze  again  to  the  white-faced  man  beside  her,  and  saw 
his  shaken  soul  staring  at  her  through  the  dark  win 
dows  of  his  eyes. 

"Where  did  you  learn  it?"  he  asked  with  a  futile 
effort  at  that  control  so  difficult  for  any  Celt  to  grasp 
where  the  heart  is  involved. 

"The  song  I  sang?     'Blue  Eyes'?"  she  inquired. 

«Yes— that." 

"I  have  the  manuscript  of  the  composer." 

"Could  you  tell  me  where  you  got  it — and — and  who 
wrote  those  words  you  sang?" 

"The  manuscript  came  to  me  from  my  mother.  .  .  . 
She  wrote  it.  ...  I  think  you  knew  her." 

His  strong,  handsome  hand  dropped  on  the  piano's 
edge,  gripped  it ;  and  under  his  pale  skin  the  quick 
blood  surged  to  his  temples. 

"What  was  your — your  mother's  name,  Miss 
Soane?" 

"She  was  Eileen  Fane." 

The  throbbing  seconds  passed  and  still  they  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes  in  silence.  And  at  last: 

"So  you  did  know  my  mother,"  she  said  under  her 
breath;  and  the  hushed  finality  of  her  words  set  his 
strong  hand  trembling. 

"Eileen's  little  daughter,"  he  repeated.  "Eileen 
Fane's  child.  .  .  .  And  grown  to  womanhood.  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  knew  your  mother — many  years  ago.  .  .  . 
When  I  enlisted  and  went  abroad.  .  .  .  Was  it  Sir 
Terence  Soane  who  married  your  mother?" 

She  shook  her  head.  He  stared  at  her,  striving  to 
concentrate,  to  think.  "There  were  other  Soanes," 
he  muttered,  "the  Ellet  Water  folk— no? But 


A  LION  IN  THE  PATH 


there  were  many  Soanes  among  the  landed  gentry  in 
the  East  and  North.  ...  I  cannot  seem  to  recol 
lect — the  sudden  shock — hearing  a  song  unex 
pectedly " 

His  white  forehead  had  grown  damp  under  the  curly 
hair  now  clinging  to  it.  He  passed  his  handkerchief 
over  his  brow  in  a  confused  way,  then  leaned  heavily 
on  the  piano  with  both  hands  grasping  it.  For  the 
ghost  of  his  youth  was  interfering,  disputing  his  con 
trol  over  his  own  mind,  filling  his  ear  with  forgotten 
words,  taking  possession  of  his  memory  and  tormenting 
it  with  the  distant  echoes  of  a  voice  long  dead. 

Through  the  increasing  chaos  in  his  brain  his 
strained  gaze  sought  to  fix  itself  on  this  living,  breath 
ing  face  before  him — the  child  of  Eileen  Fane. 

He  made  the  effort: 

"There  were  the  Soanes  of  Colross "  But  he  got 

no  farther  that  way,  for  the  twin  spectres  of  his  youth 
and  hers  were  busy  with  his  senses  now;  and  he  leaned 
more  heavily  on  the  piano,  enduring  with  lowered  head 
the  ghostly  whirlwind  rushing  up  out  of  that  obscur 
ity  and  darkness  where  once,  under  summer  skies,  he 
had  sowed  a  zephyr. 

The  girl  had  become  rather  white,  too.  One  slim 
hand  still  rested  on  the  ivory  keys,  the  other  lay  in 
ert  in  her  lap.  And  after  a  while  she  raised  her  grey 
eyes  to  this  man  standing  beside  her: 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  my  mother's  marriage?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  dull  way: 

"No." 

"You  heard—nothing?" 

"I  heard  that  your  mother  had  left  Fane  Court.'* 

"What  was  Fane  Court?" 

Murtagh  Skeel  stared  at  her  in  silence. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  trembling  a  little.  "I 
325 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


know  nothing  about  my  mother.  She  died  when  I  was 
a  few  months  old." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  don't  know  who  your  mother 
was?  You  don't  know  who  she  married?"  he  asked, 
astounded. 

"No." 

"Good  God!"  he  said,  gazing  at  her.  His  tense 
features  were  working  now;  the  battle  for  self-control 
was  visible  to  her,  and  she  sat  there  dumbly,  looking 
on  at  the  mute  conflict  which  suddenly  sent  the  tears 
flashing  into  his  dark  eyes  and  left  his  sensitive  mouth 
twitching. 

"I  shall  not  ask  you  anything  now,"  he  said  unstead 
ily;  "I  shall  have  to  see  you  somewhere  else — where 
there  are  no  people — to  interrupt.  .  .  .  But  I  shall 
tell  you  all  I  know  about — your  mother.  ...  I  was 
in  trouble — in  India.  Somehow  or  other  I  heard  in 
directly  that  your  mother  had  left  Fane  Court.  Later 
it  was  understood  that  she  had  eloped.  .  .  .  Nobody 
could  tell  me  the  man's  name.  .  .  .  My  people  in  Ire 
land  did  not  know.  .  .  .  And  I  was  not  on  good  terms 
with  your  grandfather.  So  there  was  no  hope  of  in 
formation  from  Fane  Court.  ...  I  wrote,  indeed,  beg 
ging,  beseeching  for  news  of  your  mother.  Sir  Barry 
— your  grandfather — returned  my  letters  unopened. 
.  .  .  And  that  is  all  I  have  ever  heard  concerning 
Eileen  Fane — your  mother — with  whom  I — fell  in  love 
— nearly  twenty  years  ago." 

Dulcie,  marble  pale,  nodded. 

"I  knew  you  cared  for  my  mother,"  she  said. 

"How  did  you  learn  it?" 

"Some  letters  of  hers  written  to  you.  Letters  from 
you  to  her.  I  have  nothing  else  of  hers  except  some 
verses  and  little  songs — like  the  one  you  recognised." 

"Child,  she  wrote  it  as  I  sat  beside  her! "  His 

326 


A  LION  IN  THE  PATH 


voice  choked,  broke,  and  his  lips  quivered  as  he  fought 
for  self-control  again.  ...  "I  was  not  welcome  at 
Fane  Court.  .  .  .  Sir  Barry  would  not  tolerate  me. 
.  .  .  Your  mother  was  more  kind.  .  .  .  She  was  very 
young.  And  so  was  I,  Dulcie.  .  .  .  There  were  po 
litical  troubles.  I  was  always  involved.  God  knows 
which  was  the  stronger  passion — it  must  have  been  love 
of  country — the  other  seeming  hopeless — with  the  folk 
at  Fane  Court  my  bitter  enemies — only  excepting  your 
mother.  ...  So  I  went  away.  .  .  .  And  which  of  the 
Soanes  your  mother  eloped  with  I  have  never  learned. 
.  .  .  Now,  tell  me — for  you  surely  know  that  much." 

She  said: 

"There  is  a  man  called  Soane  who  tells  me  some 
times  that  he  was  once  a  game-keeper  at  what  he  calls 
'the  big  house.'  I  have  always  supposed  him  to  be 
my  father  until  within  the  last  year.  But  recently, 
when  he  has  been  drinking  heavily,  he  sometimes  tells 
me  that  my  name  is  not  Soane  but  Fane.  .  .  .  Did 
you  ever  know  of  such  a  man?" 

"No.  There  were  game-keepers  about.  .  .  .  No.  I 
cannot  recall — and  it  is  impossible !  A  game-keeper ! 
And  your  mother!  The  man  is  mad!  What  in  God's 
name  does  all  this  mean! " 

He  began  to  tremble,  and  his  white  forehead  under 
the  clustering  curls  grew  damp  and  pinched  again. 

"If  }rou  are  Eileen's  daughter "  But  his  face 

went  dead  white  and  he  got  no  further. 

People  were  approaching  from  behind  them,  too; 
voices  grew  distinct  in  conversation;  somebody  turned 
up  another  lamp. 

"Do  sing  that  little  song  again — the  one  you  sang 
for  Mr.  Skeel,"  said  Lee  Barres,  coming  up  to  the 
piano  on  her  brother's  arm.  "Mrs.  Gerhardt  has  been 
waiting  very  patiently  for  an  opportunity  to  ask  you." 


XXIV 


A    SILENT    HOUSE 


THE  guests  from  Hohenlinden  had  departed  from 
Foreland  Farms ;  the  family  had  retired.  Out 
side,  under  a  sparkling  galaxy  of  summer  stars, 
tall  trees  stood  unstirring;  indoors  nothing  stirred  ex 
cept  the  family  cat,  darkly  prowling  on  velvet-shod 
feet  in  eternal  search  of  those  viewless  things  which  are 
manifest  only  to  the  feline  race — sorcerers  all,  whether 
quadruped  or  human. 

In  various  bedrooms  upstairs  lights  went  out,  one 
after  another,  until  only  two  windows  remained  il 
luminated,  one  in  the  west  wing,  one  in  the  north. 

For  Dulcie,  in  her  negligee  and  night  robe,  still  sat 
by  the  open  window,  chin  resting  on  palm,  her  haunted 
gaze  remotely  lost  somewhere  beyond  the  July  stars. 

And,  in  his  room,  Garry  had  arrived  only  as  far  as 
removing  coat  and  waistcoat  in  the  process  of  disrob 
ing  for  the  night.  For  his  mind  was  still  deeply  pre 
occupied  with  Dulcie  Soane  and  with  the  strange  ex 
pression  of  her  face  at  the  piano — and  with  the  pro 
foundly  altered  visage  of  Murtagh  Skeel. 

And  he  was  asking  himself  what  could  have  hap 
pened  between  those  two  in  such  a  few  minutes  there 
at  the  piano  in  the  music-room.  For  it  was  evident 
to  him  that  Skeel  was  labouring  under  poorly  con 
trolled  emotion,  was  dazed  by  it,  and  was  recovering 
self-possession  only  by  a  mighty  effort. 

And  when  Skeel  had  finally  taken  his  leave  and  had 
328 


A  SILENT  HOUSE 


gone  away  with  the  Gerhardts,  he  suddenly  stopped  on 
the  porch,  returned  to  the  music-room,  and,  bending 
down,  had  kissed  Dulcie's  hand  with  a  grace  and  rever 
ence  which  made  the  salute  more  of  a  serious  ceremony 
than  the  impulsive  homage  of  a  romantic  poet's  whim. 

Considered  by  itself,  the  abrupt  return  and  quaintly 
perfect  salute  might  have  been  taken  as  a  spontane 
ous  effervescence  of  that  delightful  Celtic  gallantry  so 
easily  stirred  to  ebullition  by  youth  and  beauty.  And 
for  that  it  was  accepted  by  the  others  after  Murtagh 
Skeel  was  gone ;  and  everybody  ventured  to  chaff  Dul- 
cie  a  little  about  her  conquest — merely  the  gentle  hu 
mour  of  gentlefolk — a  harmless  word  or  two,  a  smile 
in  sympathy. 

Garry  alone  saw  in  the  girl's  smile  no  genuine  re 
sponse  to  the  light  badinage,  and  he  knew  that  her 
serenity  was  troubled,  her  careless  composure  forced. 

Later,  he  contrived  to  say  good-night  to  her  alone, 
and  gave  her  a  chance  to  speak;  but  she  only  mur 
mured  her  adieux  and  went  slowly  away  up  the  stairs 
with  Thessalie,  not  looking  back. 

Now,  sitting  there  in  his  dressing-gown,  briar  pipe 
alight,  he  frowned  and  pondered  over  the  matter  in 
the  light  of  what  he  already  knew  of  Dulcie,  of  the 
dead  mother  who  bore  her,  of  the  grotesquely  impos 
sible  Soane,  of  this  man,  Murtagh  Skeel. 

What  had  he  and  Dulcie  found  in  common  to  con 
verse  about  so  earnestly  and  so  long  there  in  the  music- 
room?  What  had  they  talked  about  to  drive  the  col 
our  from  Dulcie's  cheeks  and  alter  Skeel's  countenance 
so  that  he  had  looked  more  like  his  own  wraith  than  his 
living  self? 

That  Dulcie's  mother  had  known  this  man,  had  once, 
evidently,  been  in  love  with  him  more  or  less,  doubtless 

329 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


was  revealed  in  their  conversation  at  the  piano.  Had 
Skeel  enlightened  Dulcie  any  further?  And  on  what 
subject?  Soane?  Her  mother?  Her  origin — in  case 
the  child  had  admitted  ignorance  of  it?  Was  Dulcie, 
now,  in  possession  of  new  facts  concerning  herself? 
Were  they  agreeable  facts?  Were  they  depressing? 
Had  she  learned  anything  definite  in  regard  to  her 
birth?  Her  parentage?  Did  she  know,  now,  who  was 
her  real  father?  Was  the  obvious  absurdity  of  Soane 
finally  exploded?  Had  she  learned  what  the  drunken 
Soane  meant  by  asserting  that  her  name  was  not  Soane 
but  Fane? 

His  pipe  burned  out  and  he  laid  it  aside,  but  did  not 
rise  to  resume  his  preparation  for  bed. 

Then,  somewhere  from  the  unlighted  depths  of  the 
house  came  the  sound  of  the  telephone  bell — at  that 
hour  of  night  always  a  slightly  ominous  sound. 

He  got  up  and  went  down  stairs,  not  troubling  to 
switch  on  any  light,  for  the  lustre  of  the  starry  night 
outside  silvered  every  window  and  made  it  possible  for 
him  to  see  his  way. 

At  the  clamouring  telephone,  finally,  he  unhooked 
the  receiver: 

"Hello?"  he  said.  "Yes!  Yes!  Oh,  is  that  you, 
Renoux?  Where  on  earth  are  you?  ...  At  North- 
brook?  .  .  .  Where?  ...  At  the  Summit  House? 
Well,  why  didn't  you  come  here  to  us?  ...  Oh!  ... 
No,  it  isn't  very  late.  We  retire  early  at  Foreland. 
.  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I'm  dressed.  .  .  .  Certainly.  .  .  .  Yes, 
come  over.  .  .  .  Yes!  .  .  .  Yes!  .  .  .  I'll  wait  for 
you  in  the  library.  ...  In  an  hour?  .  .  .  You  bet. 
No,  I'm  not  sleepy.  .  .  .  Sure  thing!  .  .  .  Come  on!" 

He  hung  up  the  receiver,  turned,  and  made  his  way 
through  the  dusk  toward  the  library  which  was  op 
posite  the  music-room  across  the  big  entrance  hall. 

330 


A  SILENT  HOUSE 


Before  he  turned  on  any  light  he  paused  to  look  out 
at  the  splendour  of  the  stars.  The  night  had  grown 
warmer;  there  was  no  haze,  now,  only  an  argentine 
clarity  in  which  shadowy  trees  stood  mysterious  and 
motionless  and  the  dim  lawn  stretched  away  to  the 
distant  avenue  and  wall,  lost  against  their  looming  bor 
der  foliage. 

Once  he  thought  he  heard  a  slight  sound  somewhere 
in  the  house  behind  him,  but  presently  remembered 
that  the  family  cat  held  sway  among  the  mice  at  such 
an  hour. 

A  little  later  he  turned  from  the  window  to  light  a 
lamp,  and  found  himself  facing  a  slim,  white  figure  in 
the  starry  dusk. 

"Dulcie!"  he  exclaimed  under  his  breath. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"Why  on  earth  are  you  wandering  about  at  this 
hour?"  he  asked.  "You  made  me  jump,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"I  was  awake — not  in  bed  yet.  I  heard  the  tele 
phone.  Then  I  went  out  into  the  west  corridor  and 
saw  you  going  down  stairs.  ...  Is  it  all  right  for  me 
to  sit  here  in  my  night  dress  with  you?" 

He  smiled: 

"Well,  considering " 

"Of  course!"  she  said  hastily,  "only  I  didn't  know 
whether  outside  your  studio " 

"Oh,  Dulcie,  you're  becoming  self-conscious !  Stop 
it,  Sweetness.  Don't  spoil  things.  Here — tuck  your 
self  into  this  big  armchair! — curl  up!  There  you  are. 

And  here  I  am "  dropping  into  another  wide,  deep 

chair.  "Lord!  but  you're  a  pretty  thing,  Dulcie,  with 
your  hair  down  and  all  glimmering  with  starlight! 
We'll  try  painting  you  that  way  some  day — I  wouldn't 
know  how  to  go  about  it  offhand,  either.  Maybe  a 

331 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


screened  arc-lamp  in  a  dark  partition,  and  a  peep 
hole — I  don't  know " 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair,  studying  her,  and  she 
watched  him  in  silence  for  a  while.  Presently  she 
sighed,  stirred,  placed  her  feet  on  the  floor  as  though 
preparing  to  rise.  And  he  came  out  of  his  impersonal 
abstraction : 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  say,  Sweetness?" 

"Another  time,"  she  murmured.     "I  don't " 

"You  dear  child,  you  came  to  me  needing  the  inti 
macy  of  our  comradeship — perhaps  its  sympathy.  My 
mind  was  wandering — you  are  so  lovely  in  the  star 
light.  But  you  ought  to  know  where  my  heart  is." 

"Is  it  open— a  little?" 

"Knock  and  see,  Sweetness." 

"Well,  then,  I  came  to  ask  you — Mr.  Skeel  is  com 
ing  to-morrow — to  see  me — alone.  Could  it  be  con 
trived — without  offending?" 

"I  suppose  it  could.  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course.  .  .  .  Only 
it  will  be  conspicuous.  You  see,  Mr.  Skeel  is  much 
sought  after  in  certain  circles — beginning  to  be  pur 
sued  and " 

"He  asked  me." 

"Dear,  it's  quite  all  right " 

"Let  me  tell  you,  please.  .  .  .  He  did  know  my 
mother." 

"I  supposed  so." 

"Yes.  He  was  the  man.  I  want  you  to  know  what 
he  told  me.  ...  I  always  wish  you  to  know  everything 
that  is  in  my — mind — always,  for  ever." 

She  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  her  pretty,  bare 
feet  extended.  One  silken  sleeve  of  her  negligee  had 
fallen  to  the  shoulder,  revealing  the  perfect  symmetry 
of  her  arm.  But  he  put  from  his  mind  the  ever  latent 
artistic  delight  in  her,  closed  his  painter's  eye  to  her 

332 


A  SILENT  HOUSE 


protean  possibilities,  and  resolutely  concentrated  his 
mental  forces  upon  what  she  was  now  saying1: 

"He  turns  out  to  be  the  same  man  my  mother  wrote 
to — and  who  wrote  to  her.  .  .  .  They  were  in  love, 
then.  He  didn't  say  why  he  went  away,  except  that 
my  mother's  family  disliked  him.  .  .  .  She  lived  at  a 
house  called  Fane  Court.  .  .  .  He  spoke  of  my  moth 
er's  father  as  Sir  Barry  Fane.  .  .  ." 

"That  doesn't  surprise  me,  Sweetness." 

"Did  you  know?" 

"Nothing  definite."  He  looked  at  the  lovely,  slen 
der-limbed  girl  there  in  the  starry  dusk.  "I  knew 
nothing  definite,"  he  repeated,  "but  there  was  no  mis 
taking  the  metal  from  which  you  had  been  made — 

or  the  mould,  either.  And  as  for  Soane "  he 

smiled. 

She  said: 

"If  my  name  is  really  Fane,  there  can  be  only  one 
conclusion;  some  kinsman  of  that  name  must  have 
married  my  mother." 

He  said: 

"Of  course,"  very  gravely. 

"Then  who  was  he?  My  mother  never  mentioned 
him  in  her  letters.  What  became  of  him?  He  must 
have  been  my  father.  Is  he  living?" 

"Did  you  ask  Mr.  Skeel?" 

"Yes.  He  seemed  too  deeply  affected  to  answer  me. 
He  must  have  loved  my  mother  very  dearly  to  show 
such  emotion  before  me." 

"What  did  you  ask  him,  Dulcie?" 

"After  we  left  the  piano?" 

"Yes." 

"I  asked  him  that.  I  had  only  a  few  more  moments 
alone  with  him  before  he  left.  I  asked  him  about  my 
mother — to  tell  me  how  she  looked — so  I  could  think 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


of  her  more  clearly.  He  has  a  picture  of  her  on  ivory. 
He  is  to  bring  it  to  me  and  tell  me  more  about  her. 
That  is  why  I  must  see  him  to-morrow — so  I  may 
ask  him  again  about  my  father." 

"Yes,  dear.  .  .  ."  He  sat  very  silent  for  a  while, 
then  rose,  came  over,  and  seated  himself  on  the  padded 
arm  of  Dulcie's  chair,  and  took  both  her  hands  into 
his: 

"Listen,  Sweetness.  You  are  what  you  are  to  me 
— my  dear  comrade,  my  faithful  partner  sharing  our 
pretty  partnership  in  art;  and,  more  than  these,  Dul- 
cie,  you  are  my  friend.  .  .  .  Never  doubt  that.  Never 
forget  it.  Nothing  can  alter  it — nothing  you  learn 
about  your  origin  can  exalt  that  friendship.  .  .  . 
Nothing  lessen  it.  Do  you  understand?  Nothing  can 
lessen  it,  save  only  if  you  prove  untrue  to  what  you 
are — your  real  self." 

She  had  rested  her  cheek  against  his  arm  while  he 
was  speaking.  It  lay  there  now,  pressed  closer. 

"As  for  Murtagh  Skeel,"  he  said,  "he  is  a  charming, 
cultivated,  fascinating  man.  But  if  he  attempts  to 
carry  out  his  agitator's  schemes  and  his  revolution 
ary  propaganda  in  this  country,  he  is  headed  for  most 
serious  trouble." 

"Why  does  he?" 

"Don't  ask  me  why  men  of  his  education  and  char 
acter  do  such  things.  They  do;  that's  all  I  know. 
Sir  Roger  Casement  is  another  man  not  unlike  Skeel. 
There  are  many,  hot-hearted,  generous,  brave,  irra 
tional.  There  is  no  use  blaming  them — no  justice  in 
it,  either.  The  history  of  British  rule  in  Ireland  is 
a  matter  of  record. 

"But,  Dulcie,  he  who  strikes  at  England  to-day 
strikes  at  civilisation,  at  liberty,  at  God!  This  is  no 
time  to  settle  old  grievances.  And  to  attempt  to  do 

334 


A  SILENT  HOUSE 


it  by  violence,  by  propaganda — to  attempt  a  reckon 
ing  of  ancient  wrongs  in  any  way,  to-day,  is  a  crime 
— the  crime  of  treachery  against  Christ's  teachings — 
of  treason  against  Lord  Christ  Himself!" 

After  a  long  interval : 

"You  are  going  to  this  war  quite  soon.  Mr.  West- 
more  said  so." 

"I  am  going — with  my  country  or  without  it." 

"When?" 

"When  I  finally  lose  patience  and  self-respect.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  exactly  when,  but  it  will  be  pretty  soon." 

"Could  I  go  with  you?" 

"Do  you  wish  to?" 

She  pressed  her  cheek  against  his  arm  in  silence. 

He  said: 

"That  has  troubled  me  a  lot,  Dulcie.  Of  course 
you  could  stay  here;  I  can  arrange — I  had  come  to  a 
conclusion  in  regard  to  financial  matters -" 

"I  can't,"  she  whispered. 

"Can't  what?" 

"Stay  here — take  anything  from  you — accept  with 
out  service  in  return." 

"What  would  you  do?" 

"I  wouldn't  care — if  you — leave  me  here  alone." 

"But,  Dulcie " 

"I  know.  You  said  it  this  evening.  There  will  come 
a  time  when  you  would  not  find  it  convenient  to  have 
me — around " 

"Dear,  it's  only  because  a  man  and  a  woman  in  this 
world  cannot  continue  anything  of  enduring  intimacy 
without  business  as  an  excuse.  And  even  then,  the 
pleasant  informality  existing  now  could  not  be  con 
tinued  with  anything  except  very  serious  disadvantage 
to  you." 

335 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"You  will  grow  tired  of  painting  me,"  she  said  un 
der  her  breath. 

"No.  But  your  life  is  all  before  you,  Dulcie.  Girls 
usually  marry  sooner  or  later." 

"Men  do  too." 

"That's  not  what  'I  meant " 

"You  will  marry,"  she  whispered. 

Again,  at  her  words,  the  same  odd  uneasiness  began 
to  possess  him  as  though  something  obscure,  unformu- 
lated  as  yet,  must  some  day  be  cleared  up  by  him  and 
decided. 

"Don't  leave  me — yet,"  she  said. 

"I  couldn't  take  you  with  me  to  France." 

"Let  me  enlist  for  service.  Could  you  be  patient 
for  a  few  months  so  that  I  might  learn  something — 
anything! — I  don't  care  what,  if  only  I  can  go  with 
you?  Don't  they  require  women  to  scrub  and  do  un 
pleasant  things — humble,  unclean,  necessary  things?" 

"You  couldn't — with  your  slender  youth  and  deli 
cate  beauty " 

"Oh,"  she  whispered,  "you  don't  know  what  I  could 
do  to  be  near  you !  That  is  all  I  want — all  I  want  in 
the  world! — just  to  be  somewhere  not  too  far  away.  I 
couldn't  stand  it,  now,  if  you  left  me.  ...  I  couldn't 
live " 

"Dulcie!" 

But,  suddenly,  it  was  a  hot-faced,  passionate,  sob 
bing  child  who  was  clinging  desperately  to  his  arm  and 
staunching  her  tears  against  it — saying  nothing  more, 
merely  clinging  close  with  quivering  lips. 

"Listen,"  he  said  impulsively.  "I'll  give  you  time. 
If  there's  anything  you  can  learn  that  will  admit  you 
to  France,  come  back  to  town  with  me  and  learn  it. 
.  .  .  Because  I  don't  want  to  leave  you,  either.  .  .  . 

There  ought  to  be  some  way — some  way "  He 

336 


A  SILENT  HOUSE 


checked  himself  abruptly,  stared  at  the  bowed  head 
under  its  torrent  of  splendid  hair — at  the  desperate 
white  little  hands  holding  so  fast  to  his  sleeve,  at  the 
slender  body  gathered  there  in  the  deep  chair,  and  all 
aquiver  now. 

"We'll  go — together,"  he  said  unsteadily.  .  .  . 
"I'll  do  what  I  can;  I  promise.  .  .  .  You  must  go  up 
stairs  to  bed,  now.  .  .  .  Dulcie!  .  .  .  dear  girl  .  .  ." 

She  released  his  arm,  tried  to  get  up  from  her  chair 
obediently,  blinded  by  tears  and  groping  in  the  star 
light. 

"Let  me  guide  you "   His  voice  was  strained,  his 

touch  feverish  and  unsteady,  and  the  convulsive  clos 
ing  of  her  fingers  over  his  seemed  to  burn  to  his  very 
bones. 

At  the  stairs  she  tried  to  speak,  thanking  him,  ask 
ing  pardon  for  her  tears,  her  loss  of  self-command, 
penitent,  afraid  that  she  had  lowered  herself,  strained 
his  friendship — troubled  him : 

"No.  I — want  you,"  he  said  in  an  odd,  indistinct, 
hesitating  voice.  .  .  .  "Things  must  be  cleared  up — 
matters  concerning  us — affairs "  he  muttered. 

She  closed  her  eyes  a  moment  and  rested  both  hands 
on  the  banisters  as  though  fatigued,  then  she  looked 
down  at  him  where  he  stood  watching  her: 

"If  you  had  rather  go  without  me — if  it  is  better 
for  you — less  troublesome " 

"I've  told  you,"  he  said  in  a  dull  voice,  "I  want 
you.  You  must  fit  yourself  to  go." 

"You  are  so  kind  to  me — so  wonderful " 

He  merely  stared  at  her;  she  turned  almost  wearily 
to  resume  her  ascent. 

"Dulcie!" 

She  had  reached  the  landing  above.  She  bent  over, 
looking  down  at  him  in  the  dusk. 

337 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Did  you  understand?" 

"I— yes,  I  think  so." 

"That  I  want  you?" 

"Yes." 

"It  is  true.  I  want  you  always.  I'm  just  beginning 
to  understand  that  myself.  Please  don't  ever  forget 
what  I  say  to  you  now,  Dulcie ;  I  want  you.  I  shall  al 
ways  want  you.  Always !  As  long  as  I  live." 

She  leaned  heavily  on  the  newel-post  above,  looking 
down. 

He  could  not  see  that  her  eyes  were  closed,  that  her 
lips  moved  in  voiceless  answer.  She  was  only  a  vague 
white  shape  there  in  the  dusk  above  him — a  mystery 
which  seemed  to  have  been  suddenly  born  out  of  some 
poignant  confusion  of  his  own  mind. 

He  saw  her  turn,  fade  into  the  darkness.  And  he 
stood  there,  not  moving,  aware  of  the  chaos  within  him, 
of  shapeless  questions  being  evolved  out  of  this  pro 
found  disturbance — of  an  inner  consciousness  groping 
with  these  questions — questions  involving  other  ques 
tions  and  menacing  him  with  the  necessity  of  decision. 

After  a  while,  too,  he  became  conscious  of  his  own 
voice  sounding  there  in  the  darkness: 

"I  am  very  near  to  love.  ...  I  have  been  close  to  it. 
...  It  would  be  very  easy  to  fall  in  love  to-night. 
.  .  .  But  I  am  wondering — about  to-morrow.  .  .  . 
And  afterward.  .  .  .  But  I  have  been  very  near — 
very  near  to  love,  to-night.  .  .  ." 

The  front  doorbell  rang  through  the  darkness. 


XXV 

STARLIGHT 

WHEN    Barres  opened   the   front   door   he    saw 
Renoux  standing  there  in  the  shadow  of  the 
porch,  silhouetted  against  the  starlight.    They 
exchanged  a  silent  grip ;  Renoux  stepped  inside ;  Barres 
closed  the  front  door. 

"Shall  I  light  up?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"No.  There  are  complications.  I've  been  followed, 
I  think.  Take  me  somewhere  near  a  window  which  com 
mands  the  driveway  out  there.  I'd  like  to  keep  my  eye 
on  it  while  we  are  talking." 

"Come  on,"  said  Barres,  under  his  breath.  He 
guided  Renoux  through  the  shadowy  entrance  hall  to 
the  library,  moved  two  padded  armchairs  to  the  win 
dow  facing  the  main  drive,  motioned  Renoux  to  seat 
himself. 

"When  did  you  arrive?"  he  asked  in  a  cautious  voice. 

"This  morning." 

"What !    You  got  here  before  we  did !" 

"Yes.  I  followed  Souchez  and  Alost.  Do  you  know 
who  tliey  were  following?" 

"No." 

"One  of  your  guests  at  dinner  this  evening." 

"Skeel!" 

Renoux  nodded : 

"Yes.  You  saw  them  start  for  the  train.  Skeel  was 
on  the  train.  But  the  conference  at  your  studio  de 
layed  me.  So  I  came  up  by  automobile  last  night." 

339 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"And  you've  been  here  all  day?" 

Renoux  nodded,  but  his  keen  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
drive,  shining  silver-grey  in  the  starlight.  And  his 
gaze  continually  reverted  to  it  while  he  continued  speak 
ing: 

"My  friend,  things  are  happening.  Let  me  first  tell 
you  what  is  the  situation.  Over  this  entire  hemisphere 
German  spies  are  busy,  German  intrigue  and  propa 
ganda  are  being  accelerated,  treason  is  spreading  from 
a  thousand  foci  of  infection. 

"In  South  America  matters  are  very  serious,  A 
revolution  is  being  planned  by  the  half  million  Ger 
mans  in  Brazil;  the  neutrality  of  Argentine  is  being 
most  grossly  violated  and  Count  Luxburg,  the  boche 
Ambassador,  is  already  tampering  with  Chile  and  other 
Southern  Republics. 

"Of  course,  the  Mexican  trouble  is  due  to  German 
intrigue  which  is  trying  desperately  to  involve  that  Re 
public  and  yours  and  also  drag  in  Japan. 

"In  Honolulu  the  German  cruiser  which  your  Gov 
ernment  has  interned  is  sending  out  wireless  informa 
tion  while  her  band  plays  to  drown  the  crackle  of  the 
instrument, 

"And  from  the  Golden  Gate  to  the  Delaware  capes, 
and  from  the  Soo  to  the  Gulf,  the  spies  of  Germany 
swarm  in  your  great  Republic,  planning  your  destruc 
tion  in  anticipation  of  the  war  which  will  surely  come.'* 

Bar  res  reddened  in  the  darkness  and  his  heart  beat 
more  rapidly: 

"You  think  it  really  will  come?" 

"War  with  Germany?  My  friend,  I  am  certain  of 
it.  Your  Government  may  not  be  certain.  It  is,  if 
you  permit  a  foreigne1*  to  say  so — an — unusual  Ad 
ministration.  ...  In  this  way,  for  example :  it  is 
cognisant  of  almost  everything  treasonable  that  is  hap- 

340 


STARLIGHT 

pening;  it  maintains  agents  in  close  contact  with  every 
mischief-hatching  German  diplomat  in  this  hemisphere ; 
it  even  has  agents  in  the  German  Embassies — agents 
unsuspected,  who  daily  rub  elbows  with  German  Ambas 
sadors  themselves! 

"It  knows  what  Luxburg  is  doing;  it  is  informed 
every  day  concerning  BernstorfTs  dirty  activities ;  the 
details  of  the  Mexican  and  Japanese  affairs  are  fa 
miliar  to  Mr.  Lansing;  all  that  happens  aboard  the 
Geier,  the  interned  German  liners — all  that  occurs  in 
German  consulates,  commercial  offices,  business  houses, 
clubs,  cafes,  saloons,  is  no  secret  to  your  Government. 

"Yet,  nothing  has  been  done,  nothing  is  being  done 
except  to  continue  to  collect  data  of  the  most  monstrous 
and  stupendous  conspiracy  that  ever  threatened  a  free 
nation !  I  repeat  that  nothing  is  being  done ;  no  prepa 
ration  is  being  made  to  face  the  hurricane  which  has 
been  looming  for  two  years  and  more,  growing  ever 
blacker  over  your  horizon.  All  the  world  can  see  the 
lightning  playing  behind  those  storm  clouds. 

"And,  my  God ! — not  an  umbrella !  Not  an  order  for 
overshoes  and  raincoats !  .  .  .  I  am  not,  perhaps,  in 
error  when  I  suggest  that  the  Administration  is  an — 
unusual  one." 

Barres  nodded  slowly. 

Renoux  said: 

"I  am  sorry.     The  reckoning  will  be  heavy." 

"I  know." 

"Yes,  you  know.  Your  great  politician,  Mr.  Roose 
velt,  knows;  your  great  Admiral,  Mahan,  knew;  your 
great  General,  Wood,  knows.  Also,  perhaps  some  mil 
lion  or  more  sane,  clear  thinking  American  citizens 
know."  He  made  a  hopeless  gesture.  "It  is  a  pity, 
Barres,  my  friend.  .  .  .  Well — it  is,  of  course,  the  af 
fair  of  your  people  to  decide.  .  .  .  We  French  can  only 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


wait.  .  .  .  But  we  have  never  doubted  your  ultimate 
decision  ....  Lafayette  did  not  live  in  vain.  York- 
town  was  not  merely  a  battle.  Your  Washington 
lighted  a  torch  for  your  people  and  for  ours  to  hold 
aloft  eternally.  Even  the  rain  of  blood  drenching  our 
Revolution  could  not  extinguish  it.  It  still  burned  at 
Gravelotte,  at  Metz,  at  Sedan.  It  burned  above  the 
smoke  and  dust  of  the  Commune.  It  burned  at  the 
Marne.  It  still  burns,  mon  ami." 

"Yes." 

"Alors "  He  sat  silent  for  a  few  moments,  his 

gaze  intent  on  the  starry  obscurity  outdoors.  Then, 
slow  and  pleasantly: 

"The  particular  mess,  the  cooking  of  which  inter 
ests  my  Government,  the  English  Government,  and 
yours,  is  now  on  the  point  of  boiling  over.  It's  this 
Irish  stew  I  speak  of.  Poor  devils — they  must  be 
crazy,  every  one  of  them,  to  do  what  they  are  already 
beginning  to  do.  .  .  .  You  remember  the  papers  which 
you  secured?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  what  we  did  last  night  at  Grogan's  has  pre 
maturely  dumped  the  fat  into  the  fire.  They  know 
they've  been  robbed;  they  know  that  their  plans  are 
in  our  hands.  Do  you  suppose  that  stops  them?  No! 
On  the  contrary,  they  are  at  this  very  moment  attempt 
ing,  as  you  say  in  New  York,  to  beat  us  to  it." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"This  way:  the  signal  for  an  Irish  attempt  on  Can 
ada  is  to  be  the  destruction  of  the  Welland  Canal. 
You  remember  the  German  suggestion  that  an  ore 
steamer  be  seized?  They're  going  to  try  it.  And  if 
that  fails,  they're  to  take  their  power  boat  into  the 
canal  anyway  and  blow  up  a  lock,  even  if  they  blow 
up  themselves  with  it.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  mad- 


STARLIGHT _^ 

ness?     Mon  dieu,  if  only  we  had  those  men  under  your 
flag  on  our  western  front!" 

"Do  you  know  who  these  men  are?"  asked  Barres. 

"Your  dinner  guest — Murtagh  Skeel — leads  this 
company  of  Death." 

"When?" 

"Now !  To-morrow !  That's  why  I'm  here !  That's 
why  your  Secret  Service  men  are  arriving.  I  tell  you 
the  mess  is  on  the  point  of  boiling  over.  The  crew  is 
already  on  its  way  to  take  over  the  launch.  They're 
travelling  west  singly,  by  separate  trains  and  routes." 

"Do  you  know  who  they  are — these  madmen?" 

"Here  is  the  list — don't  strike  a  light !  I  can  recall 
their  names,  I  think — some  of  them  anyway " 

"Are  any  of  them  Germans?" 

"Not  one.  Your  German  doesn't  blow  himself  up 
with  anything  but  beer.  Not  he !  No ;  he  lights  a  fuse 
and  legs  it!  I  don't  say  he's  a  coward.  But  self- 
immolation  for  abstract  principle  isn't  in  him.  There 
have  been  instances  resembling  it  at  sea — probably  not 
genuine — not  like  that  poor  sergeant  of  ours  in  1870, 
who  went  into  the  citadel  at  Laon  and  shoved  a  torch 
into  the  bin  of  loose  powder  under  the  magazine.  .  .  . 
Because  the  city  had  surrendered.  And  Paris  was  not 
many  miles  away.  ...  So  he  blew  himself  up  with 
citadel,  magazine,  all  the  Prussians  in  the  neighbour 
hood,  and  most  of  the  town.  .  .  .  Well — these  Irish 
are  planning  something  of  that  sort  on  the  Welland 
Canal.  .  .  .  Murtagh  Skeel  leads  them.  The  others  I 
remember  are  Madigan,  Cassidy,  Dolan,  McBride — 
and  that  fellow  Soane! " 

"Is  he  one  of  them?" 

"He  surely  is.  He  went  west  on  the  same  train  that 
brought  Skeel  here.  And  now  I'll  tell  you  what  has 
been  done  and  why  I'm  here. 

343 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"We  haven't  located  the  power-boat  on  the  lake. 
But  the  Canadians  are  watching  for  it  and  your  agents 
are  following  these  Irishmen.  When  the  crew  assembles 
they  are  to  be  arrested  and  their  power-boat  and  ex 
plosives  seized. 

"I  and  my  men  have  no  official  standing  here,  of 
course — would  not  be  tolerated  in  any  co-operation, 
officially.  But  we  have  a  certain  understanding  with 
certain  authorities." 

Barres  nodded. 

"You  see?  Very  well.  Then,  with  delicacy  and  dis 
cretion,  we  keep  in  touch  with  Mr.  Skeel.  .  .  .  And 
with  other  people.  .  .  .  You  see?  ...  He  is  abed  in 
the  large  house  of  Mr.  Gerhardt  over  yonder  at  North- 
brook.  .  .  .  Under  surveillance.  .  .  .  He  moves?  We 
move — very  discreetly.  You  see?" 

"Certainly." 

"Very  well,  then.  But  I  am  obliged  to  tell  you,  also, 
that  the  hunting  is  not  done  entirely  by  our  side.  No ! 
In  turn,  I  and  my  men,  and  also  your  agents,  are  be 
ing  hunted  by  German  agents.  ...  It  is  that  which 
annoys  and  hampers  us,  because  these  German  agents 
continually  dog  us  and  give  the  alarm  to  these  Irish 
men.  You  see?" 

"Who  are  the  German  agents?     Do  you  know?" 

"Very  well  indeed.  Bernstorff  is  the  head;  Von 
Papen  and  Boy-ed  come  next.  Under  them  serve  cer 
tain  so-called  'Diplomatic  Agents  of  Class  No.  1' — 
Adolf  Gerhardt  is  one  of  them;  his  partners,  Otto 
Klein  and  Joseph  Schwartzmeyer  are  two  others. 

"They,  in  turn,  have  under  them  diplomatic  agents 
of  the  second  class — men  such  as  Ferez  Bey,  Franz 
Lehr,  called  K17.  You  see?  Then,  lower  still  in  the 
scale,  come  the  spies  who  actually  investigate  under 
orders ;  men  like  Dave  Sendelbeck,  Johnny  Klein,  Louis 

844 


STARLIGHT 

Hochstein,  Max  Freund.  And,  then,  lowest  of  all  in 
rank,  are  the  rank  and  file — the  secret  'shock-troops' 
who  carry  out  desperate  enterprises  under  some  leader. 
Among  the  Germans  these  are  the  men  who  sneak  about 
setting  fires,  lighting  the  fuses  of  bombs,  scuttling  ships, 
defacing  Government  placards,  poisoning  Red  Cross 
bandages  to  be  sent  to  the  Allies — that  sort.  But 
among  them  are  no  battalions  of  Death.  Non  past 
And,  for  that,  you  see,  they  use  these  Irish.  You  unr 
derstand  now?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Well,  then!  I  trust  you  absolutely,  Barres.  And 
so  I  came  over  to  ask  you — and  your  clever  friends, 
Mademoiselle  Dunois,  Miss  Soane,  Mr.  Westmore,  to 
keep  their  eyes  on  this  man  Skeel  to-morrow  afternoon 
and  also  to-morrow  evening.  Because  they  will  be 
guests  at  the  Gerhardts*.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  your  Government's  agents  will  be  there.  They 
will  also  be  in  the  neighbourhood,  watching  roads  and 
railway  stations.  I  have  one  man  in  service  with  the 
Gerhardts — their  head  chauffeur.  If  anything  hap 
pens — if  Skeel  tries  to  slip  away — if  you  miss  him — 
I  would  be  very  grateful  if  you  and  your  friends  notify 
the  head  chauffeur,  Menard." 

"We'll  try  to  do  it." 

"That's  all  I  want.  Just  get  word  to  Menard  that 
Skeel  seems  to  be  missing.  That  will  be  sufficient.  Will 
you  say  this  to  your  friends?" 

"Yes,  I  will,  Renoux.  I'll  be  glad  to.  I'll  be  par 
ticularly  happy  to  offer  to  Miss  Dunois  this  proof  of 
your  confidence  in  her  integrity." 

Renoux  looked  very  grave. 

"For  me,"  he  said,  "Miss  Dunois  is  what  she  pre- 
345 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


tends  to  be.     I  have  so  informed  my  Government  at 
home  and  its  representatives  at  Washington." 

"Have  you  heard  anything  yet?" 

"Yes,  a  telegram  in  cipher  from  Washington  late 
this  afternoon." 

"Favourable  to  her?" 

"Yes.  Our  Ambassador  is  taking  up  immediately  the 
clues  Miss  Dunois  furnished  me  last  night.  Also,  he 
has  cabled  at  length  to  my  home  Government.  At  this 
hour,  no  doubt,  d'Eblis,  Bolo,  probably  an  ex-minister 
or  two,  are  being  watched.  And  in  this  country  your 
Government  is  now  in  possession  of  facts  which  must 
suggest  a  very  close  surveillance  of  the  activities  of 
Ferez  Bey." 

"Where  is  he?" 

Renoux  shook  his  head: 

"He  was  in  New  York.  But  he  gave  us  the  slip.  An 
eel !"  he  added,  rising.  "Oh,  we  shall  pick  up  his  slimy 
traces  again  in  time.  But  it  is  mortifying.  .  .  .  Well, 
thank  you,  mon  ami.  I  must  go."  And  he  started  to 
ward  the  hall. 

"Have  you  a  car  anywhere?"  asked  Barres. 

"Yes,  up  the  road  a  bit."  He  glanced  through  the 
sidelight  of  the  front  door,  carelessly.  "A  couple  of 
men  out  yonder  dodging  about.  Have  you  noticed 
them,  Barres?" 

"No!    Where?" 

"They're  out  there  in  the  shadow  of  your  wall.  I 
imagined  that  I'd  be  followed."  He  smiled  and  opened 
the  front  door. 

"Wait !"  whispered  Barres.  "You  are  not  going  out 
there  alone,  are  you?" 

"Certainly.     There's  no  danger." 

"Well,  I  don't  like  it,  Renoux.     I'll  walk  as  far  as 

your  car " 

346 


STARLIGHT 

"Don't  trouble!  I  have  no  personal  apprehen 
sion " 

"All  the  same,"  muttered  the  other,  continuing  on 
down  the  front  steps  beside  his  comrade. 

Renoux  shrugged  good-humouredly  his  disapproval 
of  such  precaution,  but  made  no  further  protest.  No 
body  was  visible  anywhere  on  the  grounds.  The  big 
iron  gates  were  still  locked,  but  the  wicket  was  open. 
Through  this  they  stepped  out  onto  the  macadam. 

A  little  farther  along  stood  a  touring  car  with  two 
men  in  it. 

"You  see?"  began  Renoux — when  his  words  were  cut 
by  the  crack  of  a  pistol,  and  the  red  tail-light  of 
the  car  crashed  into  splinters  and  went  dark. 

"Well,  by  God!"  remarked  Renoux  calmly,  looking 
at  the  woods  across  the  road  and  leisurely  producing 
an  automatic  pistol. 

Then,  from  deeper  in  the  thicket,  two  bright  flames 
stabbed  the  darkness  and  the  crash  of  the  shots  re 
echoed  among  the  trees. 

Both  men  in  the  touring  car  instantly  turned  loose 
their  pistols ;  Renoux  said,  in  a  voice  at  once  per 
plexed  and  amused: 

"Go  home,  Barres.  I  don't  want  people  to  know  you 
are  out  here.  .  .  .  I'll  see  you  again  soon." 

"Isn't  there  anything " 

"Nothing.  Please — you  would  oblige  me  by  keep 
ing  clear  of  this  if  you  really  desire  to  help  me." 

There  were  no  more  shots.  Renoux  stepped  leisurely 
into  the  tonneau. 

"Well,  what  the  devil  do  you  gentlemen  make  of 
this?"  Barres  heard  him  say  in  his  cool,  humorous 
voice.  "It  really  looks  as  though  the  boches  were  get 
ting  nervous." 

The  car  started.  Barres  could  see  Renoux  and  an- 
347 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


other  man  sitting  with  pistols  levelled  as  the  car  glided 
along  the  fringe  of  woods.  But  there  were  no  more 
shots  on  either  side,  and,  after  the  car  had  disappeared, 
Bar  res  turned  and  retraced  his  way. 

Then,  as  he  entered  his  own  gate  by  the  side  wicket, 
and  turned  to  lock  it  with  his  own  key,  an  electric 
torch  flashed  in  his  face,  blinding  him. 

"Let  him  have  it!"  muttered  somebody  behind  the 
dazzling  light. 

"That's  not  one  of  them!"  said  another  voice  dis 
tinctly.  "Look  out  what  you're  doing!  Douse  your 
glim!" 

Instantly  the  fierce  glare  faded  to  a  cinder.  Barres 
heard  running  feet  on  the  macadam,  the  crash  of  shrub 
bery  opposite.  But  he  could  see  nobody ;  and  presently 
the  footsteps  in  the  woods  were  no  longer  audible. 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  for  him  to  do  in  the  mat 
ter.  He  lingered  by  the  wicket  for  a  while,  peering 
into  the  night,  listening.  He  saw  nothing ;  heard  noth 
ing  more  that  night. 


XXVI 

'BE-N  EIRINN  i ! 

BARRES  senior  rose  with  the   sun.      Also  with 
determination,  which   took  the  form  of  a  note 
slipped  under  his  wife's  door  as  he  was  leaving 
the  house: 

"DARLING: 

"I  lost  last  night's  fishing  and  I'm  hanged  if  I  lose  it 
to-night!  So  don't  ask  me  to  fritter  away  a  perfectly 
good  evening  at  the  Gerhardt's  party,  because  the  sun  is 
up;  I'm  off  to  the  woods;  and  I  shall  remain  there  until 
the  last  trout  hreaks. 

"Tell  the  little  Soane  girl  that  I  left  a  rod  for  her  in 
the  work-room,  if  she  cares  to  join  me  at  the  second  lake. 
Garry  can  bring  her  over  and  leave  her  if  he  doesn't 
wish  to  fish.  Don't  send  a  man  over  with  a  lot  of  food 
and  shawls.  I've  a  creel  full  of  provisions,  and  I  am  suffi 
ciently  clad,  and  I  hate  to  be  disturbed  and  I  am  never 
grateful  to  people  who  try  to  be  good  to  me.  However,  I 
love  you  very  dearly. 

"Your  husband, 

"REGINALD  BARRES." 

At  half  past  seven  trays  were  sent  to  Mrs.  Barres 
and  to  Lee ;  and  at  eight-thirty  they  were  in  the  saddle 
and  their  horses  fetlock  deep  in  morning  dew. 

Dulcie,  sipping  her  chocolate  in  bed,  marked  their 
departure  with  sleepy  eyes.  For  the  emotions  of  the 
night  before  had  told  on  her,  and  when  a  maid  came  to 
remove  the  tray  she  settled  down  among  her  pillows 

349 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


again,  blinking  unresponsively  at  the  invitation  of  the 
sun,  which  cast  over  her  a  fairy  net  of  gold. 

Thessalie,  in  negligee,  came  in  later  and  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  her  bed. 

"You  sleepy  little  thing,"  she  said,  "the  men  have 
breakfasted  and  are  waiting  for  us  on  the  tennis  court." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  play,"  said  Dulcie.  "I  don't 
know  how  to  do  anything." 

"You  soon  will,  if  you  get  up,  you  sweet  little  lazy 
bones!" 

"Do  you  think  I'll  ever  learn  to  play  tennis  and  golf 
and  to  ride?"  inquired  Dulcie.  "You  know  how  to  do 
everything  so  well,  Thessa." 

"Dear  child,  it's  all  locked  up  in  you — the  ability  to 
do  everything — be  anything!  The  only  difference  be 
tween  us  is  that  I  had  the  chance  to  try." 

"But  I  can't  even  stand  on  my  head,"  said  Dulcie 
wistfully. 

"Did  you  ever  try?" 

"N-no." 

"It's  easy.    Do  you  want  to  see  me  ido  it?" 

"Oh,  please,  Thessa!" 

So  Thessalie,  calmly  smiling,  rose,  cast  herself  lightly 
upon  her  hands,  straightened  her  lithe  figure  leisurely, 
until,  amid  a  cataract  of  tumbling  silk  and  chiffon, 
her  rose  silk  slippers  pointed  toward  the  ceiling.  Then, 
always  with  graceful  deliberation,  she  brought  her  feet 
to  the  floor,  forming  an  arc  with  her  body;  held  it  a 
moment,  and  slowly  rose  upright,  her  flushed  face  half- 
buried  in  her  loosened  hair. 

Dulcie,  in  raptures,  climbed  out  of  bed  and  insisted 
on  immediate  instruction.  Down  on  the  tennis  court, 
Garry  and  Westmore  heard  their  peals  of  laughter 
and  came  across  the  lawn  under  the  window  to  re 
monstrate. 

650 


'BE-N  EIRINN  I! 


"Aren't  you  ever  going  to  get  dressed!"  called  up 
Westmore.  "If  you're  going  to  play  doubles  with 
us  you'd  better  get  busy,  because  it's  going  to  be  a 
hot  day!" 

So  Thessalie  went  away  to  dress  and  Dulcie  tiptoed 
into  her  bath,  which  the  maid  had  already  drawn. 

But  it  was  an  hour  before  they  appeared  on  the 
lawn,  cool  and  fresh  in  their  white  skirts  and  shoes,  and 
found  Westmore  and  Barres,  red  and  drenched,  ham 
mering  each  other  across  the  net  in  their  second  furious 
set. 

So  Dulcie  took  her  first  lesson  under  Garry's  aus 
pices  ;  and  she  took  to  it  naturally,  her  instinct  being 
sound,  but  her  technique  as  charmingly  awkward  as  a 
young  bird's  in  its  first  essay  at  flying. 

To  see  her  all  in  white,  with  sleeves  tucked  up, 
throat  bare,  and  the  sun  brilliant  on  her  ruddy,  rip 
pling  hair,  produced  a  curious  impression  on  Barres. 
As  far  as  the  East  is  from  the  West,  so  far  was  this 
Dulcie  of  the  tennis  court  separated  from  the  wistful, 
shabby  child  behind  the  desk  at  Dragon  Court. 

Could  they  possibly  be  the  same — this  lithe,  fresh, 
laughing  girl,  with  white  feet  flashing  and  snowy  skirts 
awhirl? — and  the  pale,  grey-eyed  slip  of  a  thing  that 
had  come  one  day  to  his  threshold  with  a  faltering  re 
quest  for  admittance  to  that  wonderland  wherein  dwelt 
only  such  as  he? 

Now,  those  grey  eyes  had  turned  violet,  tinged  with 
the  beauty  of  the  open  sky;  the  loosened  hair  had  be 
come  a  net  entangling  the  very  sunlight;  and  the  frail 
body,  now  but  one  smooth,  soft  symmetry,  seemed 
fairly  lustrous  with  the  shining  soul  it  masked  within  it. 

She  came  over  to  the  net,  breathless,  laughing,  to 
shake  hands  with  her  victorious  opponents. 

351 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"I'm  so  isorry,  Garry,"  she  said,  turning  penitently 
to  him,  "but  I  need  such  a  lot  of  help  in  the  world  be 
fore  I'm  worth  anything  to  anybody." 

"You're  all  right  as  you  are.  You  always  have  been 
all  right,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "You  never  were 
worth  less  than  you  are  worth  now;  you'll  never  be 
worth  more  than  you  are  worth  to  me  at  this  moment." 

They  were  walking  slowly  across  the  lawn  toward  the 
northern  veranda.  She  halted  a  moment  on  the  grass 
and  cast  a  questioning  glance  at  him: 

"Doesn't  it  please  you  to  have  me  learn  things?" 

"You  always  please  me." 

"I'm  so  glad.  ...  I  try.  .  .  .  But  don't  you  think 
you'd  like  me  better  if  I  were  not  so  ignorant?" 

He  looked  at  her  absently,  shook  his  head: 

"No.  ...  I  couldn't  like  you  better.  ...  I  couldn't 
care  more — for  any  girl — than  I  care  for  you.  .  .  . 
Did  you  suspect  that,  Dulcie?" 

"No." 

"Well,  it's  true." 

They  moved  slowly  forward  across  the  grass — he 
distrait,  his  handsome  head  lowered,  swinging  his  ten 
nis-bat  as  he  walked ;  she  very  still  and  lithe  and  slender, 
moving  beside  him  with  lowered  eyes  fixed  on  their 
mingled  shadows  on  the  grass. 

"When  are  you  to  see  Mr.  Skeel  ?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"This  afternoon.  .  .  .  He  asked  if  he  might  hope  to 
find  me  alone.  ...  I  didn't  know  exactly  what  to  say. 
So  I  told  him  about  the  rose  arbour.  .  .  .  He  said  he 
vrould  pay  his  respects  to  your  mother  and  sister  and 
then  ask  their  permission  to  see  me  there  alone." 

They  came  to  the  veranda;  Dulcie  seated  herself 
on  the  steps  and  he  remained  standing  on  the  grass  in 
front  of  her. 

"Remember,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  I  can  never  care 
352 


'BE-N  EIRINN  I! 


less  for  you  than  I  do  at  this  moment.  .  .  .  Don't  for 
get  what  I  say,  Dulcie." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  happy,  wondering,  even  per 
haps  a  little  apprehensive  in  her  uncertainty  as  to  his 
meaning. 

He  did  not  seem  to  care  to  enlighten  her  further.  His 
mood  changed,  too,  even  as  she  looked  at  him,  and  she 
saw  the  troubled  gravity  fade  and  the  old  gaiety  glim 
mering  in  his  eyes : 

"I've  a  mind  to  put  you  on  a  horse,  Sweetness,  and 
see  what  happens,"  he  remarked. 

"Oh,  Garry !    I  don't  want  to  tumble  off  before  you!" 

"Before  whom  had  you  rather  land  on  that  red  head 
of  yours?"  he  inquired.  "I'd  be  more  sympathetic 
than  many." 

"I'd  rather  have  Thessa  watch  me  break  my  neck. 
Do  you  mind?  It's  horrid  to  be  so  sensitive,  I  sup 
pose.  But,  Garry,  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  you  see  me 
so  shamefully  awkward  and  demoralised." 

"Fancy  your  being  awkward!     Well,  all  right " 

He  looked  across  the  lawn,  where  Thessalie  and  West- 
more  sat  together,  just  outside  the  tennis  court,  under 
a  brilliant  lawn  umbrella. 

Oddly  enough,  the  spectacle  caused  him  no  subtle 
pang,  although  their  heads  were  pretty  close  together 
and  their  mutual  absorption  in  whatever  they  were 
saying  appeared  evident  enough. 

"Let  'em  chatter,"  he  said  after  an  instant's  hesita 
tion.  "Thessa  or  my  sister  can  ride  with  you  this  af 
ternoon  when  it's  cooler.  I  suppose  you'll  take  to  the 
saddle  as  though  born  there." 

"Oh,  I  hope  so !" 

"Sure  thing.  All  Irish  girls — of  your  quality — take 
to  it." 

353 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"My— quality?" 

"Yours.  .  .  .  It's  merely  happened  so,"  he  added  ir 
relevantly,  " — but  the  contrary  couldn't  have  mattered 
...  as  long  as  you  are  you!  Nothing  else  matters  one 
way  or  another.  You  are  you:  that  answers  all  ques 
tions,  fulfils  all  requirements " 

"I  don't  quite  understand  what  you  say,  Garry !" 

"Don't  you,  Sweetness?  Don't  you  understand  why 
you've  always  been  exactly  what  you  appear  like  at 
this  moment?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  lovely,  uncertain  smile: 

"I've  always  been  myself,  I  suppose.  You  are  teas 
ing  me  dreadfully !" 

He  laughed  in  a  nervous,  excited  way,  not  like  him 
self: 

"You  bet  you  have  always  been  yourself,  Sweetness ! 
— in  spite  of  everything  you've  always  been  yourself. 
I  am  very  slow  in  discovering  it.  But  I  think  I  realise 
it  now." 

"Please,"  she  remonstrated,  "you  are  laughing  at  me 
and  I  don't  know  why.  I  think  you've  been  talking 
nonsense  and  expecting  me  to  pretend  to  understand. 
...  If  you  don't  stop  laughing  at  me  I  shall  retire 
to  my  room  and — and 

"What,  Sweetness?"  he  demanded,  still  laughing. 

"Change  to  a  cooler  gown,"  she  said,  humorously 
vexed  at  her  own  inability  to  threaten  or  punish  him 
for  his  gaiety  at  her  expense. 

"All  right;  I'll  change  too,  and  we'll  meet  in  the 
music-room !" 

She  considered  him  askance: 

"Will  you  be  more  respectful  to  me,  Garry?" 

"Respectful?     I  don't  know." 

"Very  well,  then,  I'm  not  coining  back." 
354 


'BE-N  EIRINN  I! 


But  when  he  entered  the  music-room  half  an  hour 
later,  Dulcie  was  seated  demurely  before  the  piano, 
and  when  he  came  and  stood  behind  her  she  dropped  her 
head  straight  back  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  had  a  wonderful  icy  bath,"  she  said,  "and  I'm 
ready  for  anything.  Are  you?" 

"Almost,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  her. 

She  straightened  up,  gazed  silently  at  the  piano  for 
a  few  moments;  sounded  a  few  chords.  Then  her 
fingers  wandered  uncertainly,  as  though  groping  for 
something  that  eluded  them — something  that  they  del 
icately  sought  to  interpret.  But  apparently  she  did 
not  discover  it;  and  her  search  among  the  keys  ended 
in  a  soft  chord  like  a  sigh.  Only  her  lips  could  have 
spoken  more  plainly. 

At  that  moment  Westmore  and  Thessalie  came  in 
breezily  and  remained  to  gossip  a  few  minutes  before 
bathing  and  changing. 

"Play  something  jolly!"  said  Westmore.  "One  of 
those  gay  Irish  things,  you  know,  like  'The  Honourable 
Michael  Dunn,'  or  'Finnigan's  Wake,'  or " 

"I  don't  know  any,"  said  Dulcie,  smiling.  "There's 
a  song  called  'Asthore.'  My  mother  wrote  it " 

"Can  you  sing  it?" 

The  girl  ran  her  fingers  over  the  keys  musingly: 

"I'll  remember  it  presently.  I  know  one  or  two 
old  songs  like  'Irishmen  All.'  Do  you  know  that  song?" 

And  she  sang  it  in  her  gay,  unembarrassed  way: 

"Warm  is  our  love  for  the  island  that  bore  us, 
Ready  are  we  as  our  fathers  before  us, 

Genial  and  gallant  men, 

Fearless  and  valiant  men, 
Faithful  to  Erin  we  answer  her  call. 

Ulster  men,  Munster  men, 

Connaught  men,  Leinster  men, 
Irishmen  all  we  answer  her  call!" 

355 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Fine !"  cried  Westmore.     "Try  it  again,  Dulcie !" 
"Maybe  you'll  like  this  better,"  she  said: 

"Our  Irish  girls  are  beautiful, 
As  all  the  world  will  own; 

An  Irish  smile  in  Irish  eyes 
Would  melt  a  heart  of  stone; 

But  all  their  smiles  and  all  their  wiles 
Will  quickly  turn  to  sneers 

If  you  fail  to  fight  for  Erin 
In  the  Irish  Volunteers!" 

"Hurrah!"  cried  Westmore,  beating  time  and  pick 
ing  up  the  chorus  of  the  "Irish  Volunteers,"  which  Dul 
cie  played  to  a  thunderous  finish  amid  frantic  ap 
plause. 

She  sang  for  them  "The  West's  Awake!",  "The 
Risin'  of  the  Moon,"  "Clare's  Dragoons,"  and  "Paddy 
Get  Up!"  And  after  Westmore  had  exercised  his 
lungs  sufficiently  in  every  chorus,  he  and  Thessalie  went 
off  to  their  respective  quarters,  leaving  Barres  leaning 
on  the  piano  beside  Dulcie. 

"Your  people  are  a  splendid  lot — given  half  a 
chance,"  he  said. 

"My  people?" 

"Certainly.  After  all,  Sweetness,  you're  Irish,  you 
know." 

"Oh." 

"Aren't  you?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  am,"  she  murmured  half  to 
herself. 

"Whoever  you  are  it's  the  same  to  me,  Dulcie." 
.  .  .  He  took  a  few  short,  nervous  turns  across  the 
room;  walked  slowly  back  to  her:  "Has  it  come  back 
to  you  yet — that  song  of  your  mother's  you  were  try 
ing  to  remember?" 

356 


JBE-N  EIRINN  I! 


Even  while  he  was  speaking  the  song  came  back  to 
her  memory — her  mother's  song  called  "Asthore" — 
startling  her  with  its  poignant  significance  to  herself. 

"Do  you  recollect  it?"  he  asked  again. 

"Y-yes.  ...  I  can't  sing  it." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  wish  to  sing  'Asthore' "  She  bent  her 

head  and  gazed  at  the  keyboard,  the  painful  colour 
dyeing  her  neck  and  cheeks. 

When  at  length  she  looked  up  at  him  out  of  lovely, 
distressed  eyes,  something  in  his  face — something — 
some  new  expression  which  she  dared  not  interpret — 
set  her  heart  flying.  And,  scarcely  knowing  what  she 
was  saying  in  her  swift  and  exquisite  confusion : 

"The  words  of  my  mother's  song  would  mean 
nothing  to  you,  Garry,"  she  faltered.  "You  could  not 
understand  them " 

"Why  not?" 

"B-because  you  could  not  be  in  sympathy  with  them." 

"How  do  you  know?     Try!" 

"I  can't " 

"Please,  dear!" 

The  smile  edging  her  lips  glimmered  in  her  eyes  now 
— a  reckless  little  glint  of  humour,  almost  defiant. 

"Do  you  insist  that  I  sing  'Asthore'?" 

"Yes." 

He  seemed  conscious  of  a  latent  excitement  in  her  to 
which  something  within  himself  was  already  responsive. 

"It's  about  a  lover,"  she  said,  " — one  of  the  old- 
fashioned,  head-long,  hot-headed  sort — Irish,  of  course ! 

— you'd  not  understand — such  things "  Her 

tongue  and  colour  were  running  random  riot;  her 
words  outstripped  her  thoughts  and  tripped  up  her 
tongue,  scaring  her  a  little.  She  drummed  on  the  keys 

357 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


a  rollicking  trill  or  two,  hesitated,  stole  a  swift,  uncer 
tain  glance  at  him. 

A  delicate  intoxication  enveloped  her,  stimulating, 
frightening  her  a  little,  yet  hurrying  her  into  speech 
again : 

"I'll  sing  it  for  you,  Garry  asthore!  And  if  I  were 
a  lad  I'd  be  singing  my  own  gay  credo ! — if  I  were  the 
lad — and  you  but  a  lass,  asthore !" 

Then,  though  her  gray  eyes  winced  and  her  flying 
colour  betrayed  her  trepidation,  she  looked  straight  at 
him,  laughingly,  and  her  clear,  childish  voice  continued 
the  little  prelude  to  "Asthore" : 


"I  long  for  her,  who  e'er  she  be — 
The  lass  that  Fate  decrees  for  me; 
Or  dark  or  white  and  fair  to  see, 
My  heart  is  hers  'be  n-Eirinn  i! 

I  care  not,  I, 
Who  ever  she  be, 
I  could  not  love  her  more! 
*'Be  n-Eirin  i — 
'Be  n-Eirinn  i — 
'Be  n-Eirinn  i  Asthore! 

II 

"I  know  her  tresses  unconfined, 
In  wanton  ringlets  woo  the  wind — 
Or  rags  or  silk  her  bosom  bind 
It's  one  to  me ;  my  eyes  are  blind ! 

I  care  not,  I, 

Who  ever  she  be, 

Or  poor,  or  rich  galore ! 

'Be  n-Eirinn  i — 

'Be  n-Eirinn  i — 

'Be  n-Eirinn  i  Asthore! 

358 


'BE-N  EIRINN  I! 


in 

"At  noon,  some  day,  I'll  climb  a  hill, 
And  find  her  there  and  kiss  my  fill; 
And  if  she  won't,  I  think  she  will, 
For  every  Jack  must  have  his  Jill! 

I  care  not,  I, 

Who  ever  she  be, 

The  lass  that  I  adore! 

'Be  n-Eirinn  i — 

'Be  n-Eirinn  i — 

'Be  n-Eirinn  i  Asthore!" 

Dulcie's  voice  and  her  flushed  smile,  too,  faded,  died 
out.  She  looked  down  at  the  keyboard,  where  her 
white  hands  rested  idly ;  she  bent  lower — a  little  lower ; 
laid  her  arms  on  the  music-rest,  her  face  on  her  crossed 
arms.  And,  slowly,  the  tears  fell  without  a  tremor, 
without  a  sound. 

He  had  leaned  over  her  shoulders ;  his  bowed  head  was 
close  to  hers — so  close  that  he  became  aware  of  the 
hot,  tearful  fragrance  of  her  breath;  but  there  was 
not  a  sound  from  her,  not  a  stir. 

"What  is  it,  Sweetness?"  he  whispered. 

"I — don't  know.  ...  I  didn't  m-mean  to — cry. 
.  .  .  And  I  don't  know  why  I  should.  .  .  .  I'm  very 

h-happy "  She  withdrew  one  arm  and  stretched  it 

out,  blindly,  seeking  him;  and  he  took  her  hand  and 
held  it  close  to  his  lips. 

"Why  are  you  so  distressed,  Dulcie?" 

*  The  refrain,  pronounced  Bay-nay ring-ee,  is  common  to  a  num 
ber  of  Irish  love-songs  written  during  the  last  century.  It  should 
be  translated:  "Whoever  she  be." 

In  writing  this  song,  it  is  evident  that  Eileen  Fane  was  in 
spired  by  Blind  William  of  Tipperary;  and  that  she  was  beholden 
to  Carroll  O'Daly  for  her  "Eileen,  my  Treasure,"  although  not 
to  Robin  Adair  of  County  Wicklow. 

AUTHOR. 

359 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"I'm  not,  I'm  happy.  .  .  .  You  know  I  am.  .  .  . 
My  heart  was  very  full;  that  is  all.  ...  I  don't  seem 
to  know  how  to  express  myself  sometimes.  .  .  .  Per 
haps  it's  because  I  don't  quite  dare.  ...  So  something 
gives  way.  .  .  .  And  this  happens — tears.  Don't  mind 
them,  please.  ...  If  I  could  reach  my  handker 
chief "  She  drew  the  tiny  square  of  sheer  stuff 

from  her  bosom  and  rested  her  closed  eyes  on  it. 

"It's  silly,  isn't  it,  Garry?  .  .  .  W-when  a  girl  is 
so  heavenly  contented.  ...  Is  anybody  coming?" 

"Westmore  and  Thessa!" 

She  whisked  her  tears  away  and  sat  up  swiftly.  But 
Thessa  merely  called  to  them  that  she  and  Westmore 
were  off  for  a  walk,  and  passed  on  through  the  hall 
and  out  through  the  porch. 

"Garry,"  she  murmured,  looking  away  from  him. 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"May  I  go  to  my  room  and  fix  my  hair?  Because 
Mr.  Skeel  will  be  here.  Do  you  mind  if  I  leave  you?" 

He  laughed: 

"Of  course  not,  you  charming  child!"  Then,  as  he 
looked  down  at  her  hand,  which  he  still  retained,  his 
expression  altered ;  he  inclosed  the  slender  fingers,  bent 
slowly  and  touched  the  fragrant  palm  with  his  lips. 

They  were  both  on  their  feet  the  next  second;  she 
passing  him  with  a  pale,  breathless  little  smile,  and 
swiftly  crossing  the  hall ;  he  dumb,  confused  by  the  sud 
den  tumult  within  him,  standing  there  with  one  hand 
holding  to  the  piano  as  though  for  support,  and  look 
ing  after  the  slim,  receding  figure  till  it  disappeared  be 
yond  the  library  door. 

His  mother  and  sister  returned  from  their  morning 
ride,  lingered  to  chat  with  him,  then  went  away  to  dress 
for  luncheon.  Murtagh  Skeel  had  not  yet  arrived. 

Westmore  and  Thessalie  returned  from  their  walk  in 
360 


'BE-N  EIRINN  I! 


the  woods  by  the  second  lake,  reporting  a  distant  view 
of  Barres  senior,  fishing  madly  from  a  canoe. 

Dulcie  came  down  and  joined  them  in  the  library. 
Later  Mrs.  Barres  and  Lee  appeared,  and  luncheon  was 
announced. 

Murtagh  Skeel  had  not  come  to  Foreland  Farms,  and 
there  was  no  word  from  him. 

Mrs.  Barres  spoke  of  his  absence  during  luncheon, 
for  Garry  had  told  her  he  was  coming  to  talk  to  Dulcie 
about  her  mother,  whom  he  had  known  very  well  in 
Ireland. 

Luncheon  ended,  and  the  cool  north  veranda  became 
the  popular  rendezvous  for  the  afternoon,  and  later 
for  tea.  People  from  Northbrook  drove,  rode,  or 
motored  up  for  a  cheering  cup,  and  a  word  or  two  of 
gossip.  But  Skeel  did  not  come. 

By  half-past  five  the  north  veranda  was  thronged 
with  a  gaily  chattering  and  very  numerous  throng  from 
neighbouring  estates.  The  lively  gossip  was  of  war, 
of  the  coming  elections,  of  German  activities,  of  the 
Gerhardts'  promised  moonlight  spectacle  and  dance,  of 
Murtagh  Skeel  and  the  romantic  interest  he  had 
aroused  among  Northbrook  folk. 

So  many  people  were  arriving  or  leaving  and  such  a 
delightful  and  general  informality  reigned  that  Dulcie, 
momentarily  disengaged  from  a  vapid  but  persistent 
dialogue  with  a  chuckle-headed  but  persistent  youth, 
ventured  to  slip  into  the  house,  and  through  it  to  the 
garden  in  the  faint  hope  that  perhaps  Murtagh  Skeel 
might  have  avoided  the  tea-crush  and  had  gone  directly 
there. 

But  the  rose  arbour  was  empty ;  only  the  bubble  of 
the  little  wall  fountain  and  a  robin's  evening  melody 
broke  the  scented  stillness  of  the  late  afternoon. 

Her  mind  was  full  of  Murtagh  Skeel,  her  heart  of 
361 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Garry  Barres,  as  she  stood  there  in  that  blossoming 
solitude,  listening  to  the  robin  and  the  fountain,  while 
her  eyes  wandered  across  flower-bed,  pool,  and  clipped 
greensward,  and  beyond  the  garden  wall  to  the  hill 
where  three  pines  stood  silver-green  against  the  sky. 

Little  by  little  the  thought  of  Murtagh  Skeel  faded 
from  her  mind;  fuller  and  fuller  grew  her  heart  with 
confused  emotions  new  to  her — emotions  too  perplex 
ing,  too  deep,  too  powerful,  perhaps,  for  her  to  under 
stand — or  to  know  how  to  resist  or  to  endure.  For 
the  first  vague  sweetness  of  her  thoughts  had  grown 
keen  to  the  verge  of  pain — an  exquisite  spiritual  ten 
sion  which  hurt  her,  bewildered  her  with  the  deep  emo 
tions  it  stirred. 

To  love,  had  been  a  phrase  to  her;  a  lover,  a  name. 
For  beyond  that  childish,  passionate  adoration  which 
Barres  had  evoked  in  her,  and  which  to  her  meant 
friendship,  nothing  more  subtly  mature,  more  vital,  had 
threatened  her  unawakened  adolescence  with  any  clearer 
comprehension  of  him  or  any  deeper  apprehension  of 
herself. 

And  even  now  it  was  not  knowledge  that  pierced  her, 
lighting  little  confusing  flashes  in  her  mind  and  heart. 
For  her  heart  was  still  a  child's  heart;  and  her  mind, 
stimulated  and  rapidly  developing  under  the  warm  and 
magic  kindness  of  this  man  who  had  become  her  only 
friend,  had  not  thought  of  him  in  any  other  way.  .  .  . 
Until  to-day. 

What  had  happened  in  her  mind,  in  her  heart,  she 
had  not  analysed — probably  was  afraid  to,  there  at  the 
piano  in  the  music-room.  And  later,  in  her  bedroom, 
when  she  had  summoned  up  innocent  courage  sufficient 
for  self-analysis,  she  didn't  know  how  to  question  her 
self — did  not  realise  exactly  what  had  happened  to  her, 
and  never  even  thought  of  including  him  in  the  en- 

362 


'BE-N  EIRINN  It 


chanted  cataclysm  which  had  befallen  her  mind  and 
heart  and  soul. 

Thessalie  and  Westmore  appeared  on  the  lawn  by 
the  pool.  Behind  the  woods  the  sky  was  tinted  with 
pale  orange. 

It  may  have  been  the  psychic  quality  of  the  Celt  in 
Dulcie — a  pale  glimmer  of  clairvoyance — some  momen 
tary  and  vague  premonition  wirelessed  through  the  eve 
ning  stillness  which  set  her  sensitive  body  vibrating; 
for  she  turned  abruptly  and  gazed  northward  across 
the  woods  and  hills — remained  motionless,  her  grey 
eyes  fixed  on  the  far  horizon,  all  silvery  with  the  hidden 
glimmer  of  unlighted  stars. 

Then  she  slowly  said  aloud  to  herself: 

"He  will  not  come.  He  will  never  come  again — this 
man  who  loved  my  mother." 

Barres  approached  across  the  grass,  looking  for  her, 
She  went  forward  through  the  arbour  to  meet  him. 

"Hasn't  he  come?"  he  asked. 

"He  is  not  coming,  Garry." 

"Why?     Have  you  heard  anything?" 

She  shook  her  head : 

"No.     But  he  isn't  coming." 

"Probably  he'll  explain  this  evening  at  the  Ger- 
hardts'." 

"I  shall  never  see  him  again,"  she  said  absently. 

He  turned  and  gave  her  a  searching  look.  Her  gaze 
was  remote,  her  face  a  little  pale. 

They  walked  back  to  the  house  together  in  silence. 

A  servant  met  them  in  the  hall  with  a  note  on  a  tray. 
It  was  for  Barres;  Dulcie  passed  on  with  a  pale  little 
smile  of  dismissal;  Barres  opened  the  note: 


"The    pot   has    boiled    over,   mon    ami.     Something   has 
scared  Skeel.     He  gave  us  the  slip  very  cleverly,  leaving 

363 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Gerhardt's  house  before  sunrise  and  motoring  north  at 
crazy  speed.  Where  he  will  strike  the  railway  I  have  no 
means  of  knowing.  Your  Government's  people  are  trying 
to  cover  Lake  Erie  and  Lake  Ontario.  On  the  Canada  side 
the  authorities  have  been  notified  and  are  alert  I  hope. 

"Gerhardt's  country  house  is  a  nest  of  mischief  hatchers. 
One  in  particular  is  under  surveillance  and  will  be  ar 
rested.  His  name  is  Tauscher. 

"Because,  mon  ami,  it  has  just  been  discovered  that 
there  are  two  plots  to  blow  up  the  Welland  Canal !  One  is 
Skeel's.  The  other  is  Tauscher's.  It  is  a  purely  German 
plot.  They  don't  intend  to  blow  themselves  up  these  Huns. 
Oh  no!  They  expect  to  get  away. 

"Evidently  Bernstorff  puts  no  faith  in  Skeel's  mad  plan. 
So,  in  case  it  doesn't  pan  out,  here  is  Tauscher  with  an 
other  plan,  made  in  Germany,  and  very,  very  thorough. 
Isn't  it  characteristic?  Here  is  the  report  I  received  this 
morning : 

"  'Captain  Franz  von  Papen,  Military  Attache  on  the 
ambassadorial  staff  of  Count  von  Bernstorff,  and  Captain 
Hans  Tauscher,  who,  besides  being  the  Krupp  agent  in 
America,  is  also,  by  appointment  of  the  German  War 
Office,  von  Papen's  chief  military  assistant  in  the  United 
States,  have  plotted  the  destruction  of  the  Welland  Canal 
in  Canada. 

"  'Captain  Hans  Tauscher  will  be  arrested  and  indicted 
for  violation  of  Section  13  of  the  United  States  Criminal 
Code,  for  setting  on  foot  a  military  enterprise  against 
Canada  during  the  neutrality  of  the  United  States. 

"  'Tauscher  is  a  German  reserve  officer  and  is  subject 
to  the  orders  of  Captain  Franz  von  Papen,  Military  At 
tache  of  Count  von  Bernstorff.  His  indictment  will  be 
brought  about  by  reason  of  an  attempt  to  blow  up  parts 
of  the  Welland  Canal,  the  waterway  connecting  Lakes 
Erie  and  Ontario.  A  small  party  of  Germans,  under  com 
mand  of  one  von  der  Goltz,  have  started  from  New  York 
for  the  purpose  of  committing  this  act  of  sabotage,  and, 
incidentally,  of  assassination  of  all  men,  women  and  chil 
dren  who  might  be  involved  in  the  explosion  at  the  point 
to  be  selected  by  the  plotters. 

"  'Tauscher  bought  and  furnished  to  this  crowd  of  assas 
sins  the  dynamite  which  was  to  be  used  for  the  purpose. 

364 


'BE-N  EIRINN  I! 


The  fact  that  Tauscher  had  bought  the  dynamite  has  be 
come  known  to  the  United  States  authorities  and  he  will 
be  called  upon  to  make  an  explanation. 

"  'Captain  Tauscher  is  said  to  be  an  agreeable  compan 
ion,  but  he  had  the  ordinary  predilection  of  a  German 
officer  for  assassinating  women  and  children.' 

"Now,  then,  mon  ami,  this  is  the  report.  I  expect  that 
United  States  Secret  Service  men  will  arrest  Tauscher  to 
night.  Perhaps  Gerhardt,  also,  will  be  arrested. 

"At  any  rate,  at  the  dance  to-night  you  need  not  look 
for  Skeel.  But  may  I  suggest  that  you  and  Mr.  West- 
more  keep  your  eyes  on  Mademoiselle  Dunois.  Because, 
at  the  railway  station  to-day,  the  German  agents,  Franz 
Lehr  and  Max  Freund,  were  recognised  by  my  men,  dis 
guised  as  liveried  chauffeurs,  but  in  whose  service  we 
have  not  yet  been  able  to  discover. 

"Therefore,  it  might  be  well  for  you  and  Mr.  Westmore 
to  remain  near  Mademoiselle  Dunois  during  the  evening. 

"Au  revoir !    I  shall  see  you  at  the  dance. 


B 


XXVII 

THE    MOONLIT    WAY 

ARRES  whistled  and  sang  alternately  as  he  tied 
his  evening  tie  before  his  looking  glass. 

"And  I  care  not,  I, 
Who  ever  she  be 
I  could  not  love  her  more!" 


he  chanted  gaily,  examining  the  effect  and  buttoning 
his  white  waistcoat. 

Westmore,  loitering  near  and  waiting  for  him,  re 
ferred  again,  indignantly,  to  Renoux's  report  concern 
ing  the  presence  of  Freund  and  Lehr  at  the  Northbrook 
railway  station. 

"If  I  catch  them  hanging  around  Thessa,"  he  said, 
"I'll  certainly  beat  them  up,  Garry. 

"Deal  with  anything  of  that  sort  directly ;  that's  al 
ways  the  best  way.  No  use  arguing  with  a  Hun.  When 
he  misbehaves,  beat  him  up.  It's  the  only  thing  he  un 
derstands." 

"Well,  it's  all  right  for  us  to  do  it  now,  as  long  as 
the  French  Government  knows  where  Thessa  is,"  re 
marked  Barres,  drawing  a  white  clove-carnation 
through  his  button-hole.  "But  what  do  you  think  of 
that  dirty  swine,  Tauscher,  planning  wholesale  murder 
like  that?  Isn't  it  the  fine  flower  of  Prussianism? 
There's  the  real  and  porcine  boche  for  you,  sombre, 

366 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


savage,  stupidly  ferocious,  swinishly  persistent,  but 
never  quite  cunning  enough,  never  sufficiently  subtle 
in  planning  his  filthy  and  murderous  holocausts." 

Westmore  nodded : 

"Quite  right.  The  Lusltania  and  Belgium  cost  the 
Hun  the  respect  of  civilisation,  and  are  driving  the 
civilised  world  into  a  common  understanding.  We'll  go 
in  before  long;  don't  worry." 

They  descended  the  stairs  together  just  as  dinner 
was  announced. 

Mrs.  Barres  said  laughingly  to  her  son: 

"Your  father  is  still  fishing,  I  suppose,  so  in  spite  of 
his  admonition  to  me  by  letter  this  morning,  I  sent  over 
one  of  the  men  with  some  thermos  bottles  and  a  very 
nice  supper.  He  grumbles,  but  he  always  likes  it." 

"I  wonder  what  Mr.  Barres  will  think  of  me,"  ven 
tured  Dulcie.  "He  left  such  a  pretty  little  rod  for 
me.  Thessa  and  I  have  been  examining  it.  I'd  like 
to  go,  only — "  she  added  with  a  wistful  smile,  "I  have 
never  been  to  a  real  party." 

"Of  course  you're  going  to  the  Gerhardts',"  insisted 
Lee,  laughing.  "Dad  is  absurd  about  his  fishing.  I 
don't  believe  any  girl  ever  lived  who'd  prefer  fishing 
on  that  foggy  lake  at  night  to  dancing  at  such  a  party 
as  you  are  going  to  to-night." 

"Aren't  you  going?"  asked  Thessalie,  but  Lee  shook 
her  head,  still  smiling. 

"We  have  two  young  setters  down  with  distemper, 
and  mother  and  I  always  sit  up  with  our  dogs  under 
such  circumstances." 

Personal  devotion  of  this  sort  was  new  to  Thessalie. 
Mrs.  Barres  and  Lee  told  her  all  about  the  dreaded 
contagion  and  how  very  dreadful  an  epidemic  might 
be  in  a  kennel  of  such  finely  bred  dogs  as  was  the  well- 
known  Foreland  Kennels. 

367 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Dog  talk  absorbed  everybody  during  dinner.  Mrs. 
Barres  and  Lee  were  intensely  interested  in  Thessalie's 
description  of  the  Grand  Duke  Cyril's  Russian  wolf 
hounds,  with  which  she  had  coursed  and  hunted  as  a 
child. 

Once  she  spoke,  also,  of  those  strange,  pathetic, 
melancholy  Ishmaelites,  pitiable  outcasts  of  their  race 
— the  pariah  dogs  of  Constantinople.  For,  somehow, 
while  dressing  that  evening,  the  distant  complaint  of  a 
tethered  beagle  had  made  her  think  of  Stamboul.  And 
she  remembered  that  night  so  long  ago  on  the  moonlit 
deck  of  the  Mirage,  where  she  had  stood  with  Ferez 
Bey  while,  from  the  unseen,  monstrous  city  close  at 
hand,  arose  the  endless  wailing  of  homeless  dogs. 

How  strange  it  was,  too,  to  think  that  the  owner  of 
the  Mirage  should  this  night  be  her  host  here  in  the 
Western  World,  yet  remain  unconscious  that  he  had 
ever  before  entertained  her. 

Before  coffee  had  been  served  in  the  entrance  hall, 
the  kennel  master  sent  in  word  that  one  of  the  pups, 
a  promising  Blue  Belton,  had  turned  very  sick  indeed, 
and  would  Mrs.  Barres  come  to  the  kennels  as  soon  as 
convenient. 

It  was  enough  for  Mrs.  Barres  and  for  Lee;  they 
both  excused  themselves  without  further  ceremony  and 
went  away  together  to  the  kennels,  apparently  quite 
oblivious  of  their  delicate  dinner  gowns  and  slippers. 

"I've  seen  my  mother  ruin  many  a  gown  on  such  er 
rands,"  remarked  Garry,  smiling.  "No  use  offering 
yourself  as  substitute ;  my  mother  would  as  soon  aban 
don  her  own  sick  baby  to  strangers  as  turn  over  an 
ailing  pup  to  anybody  except  Lee  and  herself." 

"I  think  that  is  very  splendid,"  murmured  Dulcie, 
368 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


relinquishing  her  coffee  cup  to  Garry  and  suffering 
a  maid  to  invest  her  with  a  scarf  and  light  silk  wrap. 

"My  mother  is  splendid,"  said  Garry  in  a  low  voice. 
"You  will  see  her  prove  it  some  day,  I  hope." 

The  girl  turned  her  lovely  head,  curiously,  not  un 
derstanding.  Garry  laughed,  but  his  voice  was  not 
quite  steady  when  he  said : 

"But  it  all  depends  on  you,  Dulcie,  how  splendid 
my  mother  may  prove  herself." 

"On  me!" 

"On  your — kindness." 

"My— kindness!" 

Thessalie  came  up  in  her  pretty  carnation-rose  cloak, 
esquired  by  the  enraptured  Westmore,  expressing  ad 
miration  for  the  clothing  adorning  the  very  obvious 
object  of  his  devotion: 

"All  girls  can't  wear  a  thing  like  that  cloak,"  he  was 
explaining  proudly;  "now  it  would  look  like  the  devil 
on  you,  Dulcie,  with  your  coppery  hair  and " 

"What  exquisite  tact!"  shrugged  Thessalie,  already 
a  trifle  restive  under  his  constant  attendance  and  un 
remitting  admiration.  "Can't  you,  out  of  your  richly 
redundant  vocabulary,  find  something  civil  to  say  to 
Dulcie?" 

But  Dulcie,  still  preoccupied  with  what  Barres  had 
said,  merely  gave  her  an  absent-minded  smile  and  walked 
slowly  out  beside  her  to  the  porch,  where  the  head 
lights  of  a  touring  car  threw  two  broad  beams  of  gold 
across  the  lawn. 

It  was  a  swift,  short  run  through  the  valley  north 
ward  among  the  hills,  and  very  soon  the  yellow  lights 
of  Northbrook  summer  homes  dotted  the  darkness 
ahead,  and  cars  were  speeding  in  from  every  direction 
— from  Ilderness,  Wythem,  East  and  South  Gorloch — 

369 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


carrying  guests  for  the  Gerhardts'  moonlight  spec 
tacle  and  dance. 

Apropos  of  the  promised  spectacle,  Barres  observed 
to  Dulcie  that  there  happened  to  be  no  moon,  and  con 
sequently  no  moonlight,  but  the  girl,  now  delightfully 
excited  by  glimpses  of  Hohenlinden  festooned  with 
electricity,  gaily  reproached  him  for  being  literal. 

"If  one  is  happy,"  she  said,  "a  word  is  enough  to 
satisfy  one's  imagination.  If  they  call  it  a  moonlight 
spectacle,  I  shall  certainly  see  moonlight  whether  it's 
there  or  not !" 

"They  may  call  it  heaven,  too,  if  they  like,"  he  said, 
"and  I'll  believe'it — if  you  are  there." 

At  that  she  blushed  furiously: 

"Oh,  Garry !  You  don't  mean  it,  and  it's  silly  to  say 
it!" 

"I  mean  it  all  right,"  he  muttered,  as  the  car  swung 
in  through  the  great  ornamental  gates  of  Hohenlinden. 
"The  trouble  is  that  I  mean  so  much — and  yoti  mean 
so  much  to  me — that  I  don't  know  how  to  express  it." 

The  girl,  her  face  charmingly  aglow,  looked  straight 
in  front  of  her  out  of  enchanted  eyes,  but  her  heart's 
soft  violence  in  her  breast  left  her  breathless  and  mute ; 
and  when  the  car  stopped  she  scarcely  dared  rest  her 
hand  on  the  arm  which  Barres  presented  to  guide  her 
in  her  descent  to  earth. 

It  may  have  been  partly  the  magnificence  of  Ho 
henlinden  that  so  thrillingly  overwhelmed  her  as  she 
seated  herself  with  Garry  on  the  marble  terrace  of  an 
amphitheatre  among  brilliant  throngs  already  gathered 
to  witness  the  eagerly  discussed  spectacle. 

And  it  really  was  a  bewilderingly  beautiful  scene, 
there  under  the  summer  stars,  where  a  thousand  rosy 
lanterns  hung  tinting  the  still  waters  of  the  little  stream 

370 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


that  wound  through  the  clipped  greensward  which 
was  the  stage. 

The  foliage  of  a  young  woodland  walled  in  this  vernal 
scene;  the  auditorium  was  a  semi-circle  of  amber  mar 
ble — rows  of  low  benches,  tier  on  tier,  rising  to  a  level 
with  the  lawn  above. 

The  lantern  light  glowed  on  pretty  shoulders  and 
bare  arms,  on  laces  and  silks  and  splendid  jewels,  and 
stained  the  sombre  black  of  the  men  with  vague  warm 
hues  of  rose. 

Westmore,  leaning  over  to  address  Barres,  said  with 
an  amused  air: 

"You  know,  Garry,  it's  Corot  Mandel  who  is  put 
ting  on  this  thing 'for  the  Gerhardts." 

"Certainly  I  know  it,"  nodded  Barres.  "Didn't  he 
try  to  get  Thessa  for  it?" 

Thessalie,  whose  colour  was  high  and  whose  dark 
eyes,  roaming,  had  grown  very  brilliant,  suddenly  held 
out  her  hand  to  one  of  two  men  who,  traversing  the  in 
clined  aisle  beside  her,  halted  to  salute  her. 

"Your  name  was  on  our  lips,"  she  said  gaily.  "How 
do  you  do,  Mr.  Mandel !  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Trenor ! 
Are  you  going  to  amaze  us  with  a  miracle  in  this  en 
chanting  place?" 

The  two  men  paid  their  respects  to  her,  and,  with 
unfeigned  astonishment  and  admiration,  to  Dulcie, 
whom  they  recognised  only  when  Thessalie  named  her 
with  delighted  malice. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Miss  Soane,"  began  Mandel,  leaning  on 
the  back  of  the  marble  seat,  "you  and  Miss  Dunois 
might  have  helped  me  a  lot  if  I'd  known  you  were 
to  be  in  this  neighbourhood." 

Esme  Trenor  bent  over  Barres,  dropping  his  voice: 

"We  had  to  use  a  couple  of  Broadway  hacks — you'll 
recognise  'em  through  their  paint — you  understand? — 

371 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


the  two  that  New  York  screams  for.  It's  too  bad. 
Corot  wanted  something  unfamiliarly  beautiful  and 
young  and  fresh.  But  these  Northbrook  amateurs  are 
incredibly  amateurish." 

Thessalie  was  chattering  away  with  Corot  Mandel 
and  Westmore;  Esme  Trenor  gazed  upon  Dulcie  in 
wonder  not  unmixed  with  chagrin : 

"You've  never  forgiven  me,  Dulcie,  have  you?" 

"For  what  ?"  she  inquired  indifferently. 

"For  not  discovering  you  when  I  should  have." 

She  smiled,  but  the  polite  effort  and  her  detachment 
of  all  interest  in  him  were  painfully  visible  to  Esme. 

"I'm  sorry  you  still  remember  me  so  unkindly,"  he 
murmured. 

"But  I  never  do  remember  you  at  all,"  she  explained 
so  candidly  that  Barres  was  obliged  to  avert  his 
amused  face,  and  Esme  Trenor  reddened  to  the  roots 
of  his  elaborate  hair.  Mandel,  with  a  wry  grin,  linked 
his  arm  in  Trenor's  and  drew  him  away  toward  the 
flight  of  steps  which  was  the  stage  entrance  to  the  dress 
ing  rooms  below. 

"Good-bye !"  he  said,  waving  his  hat.  "Hope  you'll 
like  my  moonlight  frolic !" 

"Where's  your  bally  moon !"  demanded  Westmore. 

As  he  spoke,  an  unseen  orchestra  began  to  play  "Au 
Claire  de  la  Lune"  and,  behind  the  woods,  silhouetting 
every  trunk  and  branch  and  twig,  the  glittering  edge 
of  a  huge,  silvery  moon  appeared. 

Slowly  it  rose,  flashing  a  broad  path  of  light  across 
the  lawn,  reflected  in  the  still  little  river.  And  when  it 
was  in  the  position  properly  arranged  for  it,  some  local 
Joshua — probably  Corot  Mandel — arrested  its  further 
motion,  and  it  hung  there,  flooding  the  stage  with  a 
witching  lustre. 

All  at  once  the  stage  swarmed  with  supple,  glimmer- 
372 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


ing  shapes:  Oberon  and  Titania  came  flitting  down 
through  the  trees ;  Puck,  scintillating  like  a  dragon-fly, 
dropped  on  the  sward,  seemingly  out  of  nowhere. 

It  was  a  wonderfully  beautiful  ballet,  with  an  un 
seen  chorus  singing  from  within  the  woods  like  a  thou 
sand  seraphim. 

As  for  the  play  itself,  which  began  with  the  calm 
and  silvered  river  suddenly  swarming  alive  with  water- 
nymphs,  it  had  to  do,  spasmodically,  with  the  love  of 
the  fairy  crown-prince  for  the  very  attractive  water- 
nymph,  Ythali.  This  nimble  lady,  otherwise,  was 
fiercely  wooed  by  the  King  of  the  Mud-turtles,  a  most 
horrid  and  sprawling  shape,  but  a  clever  foil — rwith 
his  army  of  river-rats,  minks  and  crabs — to  the 
nymphs  and  wood  fairies. 

Also,  the  music  was  refreshingly  charming,  the  sing 
ing  excellent,  and  the  story  interesting  enough  to  keep 
the  audience  amused  until  the  end. 

There  was,  of  course,  much  moonlight  dancing,  much 
frolicking  in  the  water,  few  clothes  on  the  Broadway 
principals,  fewer  on  the  chorus,  and  apparently  no 
scruples  about  discarding  even  these. 

But  the  whole  spectacle  was  so  unreal,  so  spectral, 
that  its  shadowy  beauty  robbed  it  of  offence. 

That  sort  of  thing  had  made  Corot  Mandel  famous, 
He  calculated  to  the  width  of  a  moonbeam  just  how 
far  he  could  go.  And  he  never  went  a  hair's  breadth 
farther. 

Thessalie  looked  on  with  flushed  cheeks  and  parted 
lips,  absorbed  in  it  all  with  the  savant  eyes  of  a  pro 
fessional.  She  also  had  once  coolly  decided  how  far 
her  beauty  and  talent  and  adolescent  effrontery  could 
carry  her  gay  disdain  of  man.  And  she  had  flouted  him 
with  indifferent  eyes  and  dainty  nose  uplifted — mocked 
him  and  his  conventions,  with  a  few  roubles  in  her 

373 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


dressing-room — slapped  the  collective  face  of  his  sex 
with  her  insolent  loveliness,  and  careless  smile. 

Perhaps,  as  she  sat  there  watching  the  fairy  scene, 
she  remembered  her  ostrich  and  the  German  Embassy, 
and  the  aged  Von-der-Goltz  Pasha,  all  over  jewels  and 
gold,  peeping  at  her  through  thick  spectacles  under  his 
red  fez. 

Perhaps  she  thought  of  Ferez,  too,  and  maybe  it 
was  thought  of  him  that  caused  her  smooth  young 
shoulders  the  slightest  of  shivers,  as  though  a  harsh 
breeze  had  chilled  her  skin. 

As  for  Dulcie,  she  was  in  the  seventh  heaven,  thrilled 
with  the  dreamy  beauty  of  it  all  and  the  exquisite  phan 
toms  floating  on  the  greensward  under  her  enraptured 
eyes. 

No  other  thought  possessed  her  save  sheer  delight  in 
this  revelation  of  pure  enchantment. 

So  intent,  so  still  she  became,  leaning  a  little  forward 
in  her  place,  that  Barres  found  her  far  more  interest 
ing  and  wonderful  to  watch  than  MandePs  cunningly 
contrived  illusions  in  the  artificial  moonlight  below. 

And  now  Titania's  trumpets  sounded  from  the  woods, 
warning  all  of  the  impending  dawn.  Suddenly  the 
magic  fairy  moon  vanished  like  the  flame  of  a  blown-out 
candle;  a  faint,  rosy  light  grew  through  the  trees,  re 
vealing  an  empty  stage  and  a  river  on  which  floated 
a  single  swan. 

Then,  from  somewhere,  a  distant  cock-crow  rang 
through  the  dawn.  The  play  was  ended. 

Two  splendid  orchestras  were  alternating  on  the  vast 
marble  terraces  of  Hohenlinden,  where  hundreds  of 
dancers  moved  under  the  white  radiance  of  a  huge 
silvery  moon  overhead — another  contrivance  of 
Mandel's — for  the  splendid  sphere  aglow  with  white 
fire  had  somehow  been  suspended  above  the  linden  trees 

374 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


so  that  no  poles  and  no  wires  were  visible  against  the 
starry  sky. 

And  in  its  milky  flood  of  light  the  dancers  moved 
amid  a  wilderness  of  flowers  or  thronged  the  supper- 
rooms  within,  where  Teutonic  architectural  and  decora 
tive  magnificence  reigned  in  one  vast,  incredible,  indi 
gestible  gastronomic  apotheosis  of  German  kultur. 

Barres,  for  the  moment,  dancing  with  Thessalie, 
pressed  her  fingers  with  mischievous  tenderness  and 
whispered : 

"The  moonlit  way  once  more  with  you,  Thessa!  Do 
you  remember  our  first  dance?" 

"Can  I  ever  thank  God  enough  for  that  night's 
folly !"  she  said,  with  such  sudden  emotion  that  his 
smile  altered  as  he  looked  into  her  dark  eyes. 

"Yet  that  dance  by  moonlight  exiled  you,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  realise  what  it  saved,  me  from,  too?  And 
what  it  has  given  me?" 

He  wondered  whether  she  included  Westmore  in  the 
gift.  The  music  ceased  at  that  moment,  and,  though 
the  other  orchestra  began,  they  strolled  along  the 
flowering  balustrade  of  the  terrace  together  until  they 
encountered  Dulcie  and  Westmore. 

"Have  you  spoken  to  your  hostess  ?"  inquired  West- 
more.  "She's  over  yonder  on  a  dais,  enthroned  like 
Germania  or  a  Metropolitan  Opera  Valkyrie.  Dulcie 
and  I  have  paid  our  homage." 

So  Barres  and  Thessalie  went  away  to  comply  with 
the  required  formality;  and,  when  they  returned  from 
the  rite,  they  found  Esme  Trenor  and  Corot  Mandel 
cornering  Dulcie  under  a  flowering  orange  tree  while 
Westmore,  beside  her,  chatted  with  a  most  engaging 
woman  who  proved,  later,  to  be  a  practising  physician. 

Esme  was  saying  languidly,  that  anybody  could  fly 
into  a  temper  and  kick  his  neighbours,  but  that  indif- 

375 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


ference  to  physical  violence  was  a  condition  of  mind 
attained  only  by  the  spiritual  intellect  of  the  psychic 
adept. 

"Passivism,"  he  added  with  a  wave  of  his  lank  fin 
gers,  "is  the  first  plane  to  be  attained  on  the  journey 
toward  Nirvana.  Therefore,  I  am  a  pacifist  and  this 
silly  war  does  not  interest  me  in  the  slightest." 

The  very  engaging  woman,  who  had  been  chatting 
with  Westmore,  looked  around  at  Esme  Trenor,  evi 
dently  much  amused. 

"I  imagined  that  you  were  a  pacifist,"  she  said.  "I 
fancy,  Mr.  Mandel,  also,  is  one." 

"Indeed,  I  am,  madam!"  said  Corot  Mandel.  "I've 
plenty  to  do  in  life  without  strutting  around  and  bawl 
ing  for  blood  at  the  top  of  my  lungs !" 

"Thank  heaven,"  added  Esme,  "the  President  has 
kept  us  out  of  war.  This  business  of  butchering  others 
never  appealed  to  me — except  for  the  slightly  unpleas 
ant  sensations  which  I  experience  when  I  read  the  de 
tails." 

"Oh.  Then  unpleasant  sensations  so  appeal  to 
you?"  inquired  Westmore,  very  red. 

"Well,  they  are  sensations,  you  know,"  drawled 
Esme.  "And,  for  a  man  who  experiences  few  sensa 
tions  of  any  sort,  even  unpleasant  ones  are  pleasur 
able." 

Mandel  yawned  and  said: 

"The  war  is  an  outrageous  bore.  All  wars  are  stu 
pid  to  a  man  of  temperament.  Therefore,  I'm  a  paci 
fist.  And  I  had  rather  live  under  Prussian  domina 
tion  than  rush  about  the  country  with  a  gun  and  sixty 
pounds  of  luggage  on  my  back!" 

He  looked  heavily  at  Dulcie,  who  had  slipped  out 
of  the  corner  on  the  terrace,  where  he  and  Esme  had 
penned  her. 

376 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"There  are  other  things  to  do  more  interesting  than 
jabbing  bayonets  into  Germans,"  he  remarked.  "Did 
you  say  you  hadn't  any  dance  to  spare  us,  Miss  Soane? 
Nor  you  either,  Miss  Dunois?  Oh,  well."  He  cast  a 
disgusted  glance  at  Barres,  squinted  at  Westmore 
through  his  greasy  monocle  in  hostile  silence ;  then, 
taking  Esme's  arm,  made  them  all  a  too  profound 
obeisance  and  sauntered  away  along  the  terrace. 

"What  a  pair  of  beasts !"  said  Westmore.  "They 
make  me  actually  ill!" 

Barres  shrugged  and  turned  to  the  very  engaging 
lady  beside  him: 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  breed  of  human,  doc 
tor?"  he  inquired. 

She  smiled  at  Barres  and  said: 

" Several  of  my  own  patients  who  are  suffering  from 
the  same  form  of  psycho-neurotic  trouble  are  also 
peace-at-any-price  pacifists.  They  do  not  come  to  me 
to  be  cured  of  their  pacifism.  On  the  contrary,  they 
cherish  it  most  tenderly.  In  examining  them  for  other 
troubles  I  happened  upon  what  appeared  to  me  a  very 
close  relation  between  the  peculiar  attitude  of  the 
peace-at-any-price  pacifist  and  a  certain  type  of  un 
conscious  pervert." 

"That  passivism  is  perversion  does  not  surprise  me," 
remarked  Barres. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "the  pacifist  is  not  conscious  of 
his  real  desires  and  therefore  cannot  be  termed  a  true 
pervert.  But  the  very  term,  passivism,  is  usually  sig 
nificant  and  goes  very  deep  psychologically.  In  an 
alysing  my  patients  I  struck  against  a  buried  impulse 
in  them  to  suffer  tyrannous  treatment  from  an  om 
nipotent  master.  The  impulse  was  so  strong  that  it 
amounted  to  a  craving  and  tried  to  absorb  all  the 
psychic  material  within  its  reach.  They  did  not  rec- 

377 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


ognise  the  original  impulse,  because  that  had  long  ago 
been  crushed  down  by  the  exactions  of  civilised  life. 
Nevertheless,  they  were  tortured  and  teased,  made  un 
settled  and  wretched  by  a  something  which  contin 
ually  baffled  them.  Deep  under  the  upper  crust  of 
their  personalities  was  concealed  a  seething  desire  to 
be  completely,  inevitably,  relentlessly,  unreservedly 
overwhelmed  by  a  subjugation  from  which  there  was 
no  escape." 

She  turned  to  Westmore : 

"It's  purely  pathological,  the  condition  of  those  two 
self-confessed  pacifists.  The  pacifist  loves  suffering. 
The  ordinary  normal  person  avoids  suffering  when  pos 
sible.  He  endures  it  only  when  something  necessary 
or  desirable  cannot  be  gained  in  any  other  way.  He 
may  undergo  agony  at  the  mere  thought  of  it.  His 
bravery  consists  in  facing  danger  and  pain  in  spite 
of  fear.  But  the  extreme  passivist,  who  is  really  an 
unconscious  pervert,  loves  to  dream  of  martyrdom 
and  suffering.  It  must  be  a  suffering,  however,  which 
is  forced  upon  him,  and  it  must  be  a  personal  matter, 
not  impersonal  and  general,  as  in  war.  And  he  loves 
to  contemplate  a  condition  of  complete  captivity — of 
irresponsible  passivity,  in  which  all  resistance  is  in 
vain." 

"Do  you  know,  they  disgust  me,  those  two !"  said 
Westmore  angrily.  "I  never  could  endure  anything 
abnormal.  And  now  that  I  know  Esme  is — and  that 
big  lout,  Mandel — I'll  keep  away  from  them.  Do  you 
blame  me,  doctor?" 

"Well,"  she  said,  much  amused  and  turning  to  go, 
"they're  very  interesting  to  physicians,  you  know — 
these  non-resisting,  pacifistic  perverts.  But  outside  a 
sanatorium  I  shouldn't  expect  them  to  be  very  popu 
lar."  And  she  laughed  and  joined  a  big,  good-looking 

378 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


man  who  had  come  to  seek  her,  and  who  wore,  in  his 
buttonhole,  the  button  of  the  French  Legion  of  Hon 
our. 

Thessalie  had  strolled  forward  along  the  terrace  by 
herself,  interested  in  the  pretty  spectacle  and  the  play 
of  light  on  jewels  and  gowns. 

Westmore,  busy  in  expressing  to  Barres  his  opinion 
of  Esme  and  Mandel,  did  not  at  the  moment  miss  Thes 
salie,  who  continued  to  saunter  on  along  the  balus 
trade  of  the  terrace,  under  the  blossoming  row  of 
orange  trees. 

Just  below  her  was  another  terrace  and  an  oval 
pool  set  with  tiny  jets  which  seemed  to  spray  the  basin 
with  liquid  silver.  Silvery  fish,  too,  were  swimming  in 
it  near  the  surface,  sometimes  flinging  themselves  clear 
out  of  water  as  though  intoxicated  by  the  unwonted 
lustre  which  flooded  their  crystal  pool. 

To  see  them  nearer,  Thessalie  ran  lightly  down  the 
steps  and  walked  toward  the  shimmering  basin.  And 
at  the  same  time  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  man  in 
evening  dress,  his  bosom  crossed  by  a  sash  of  watered 
red  silk,  appeared  climbing  nimbly  from  a  still  lower 
level. 

She  watched  him  step  swiftly  upon  the  terrace  and 
cross  it  diagonally,  walking  in  her  direction  toward  the 
stone  stairs  which  she  had  just  descended.  Then,  pay 
ing  him  no  further  attention,  she  looked  down  into  the 
water. 

He  came  along  very  near  to  where  she  stood,  gaz 
ing  into  the  pool — peered  at  her  curiously — was  al 
ready  passing  at  her  very  elbow — when  something  made 
her  lift  her  head  and  look  around  at  him. 

The  mock  moonlight  struck  full  across  his  features ; 
and  the  shock  of  seeing  him  drove  every  vestige  of  col 
our  from  her  own  face. 

379 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


The  man  halted,  staring  at  her  in  unfeigned  amaze 
ment.  Suddenly  he  snarled  at  her,  baring  his  teeth 
in  her  shrinking  face. 

"Kismet  dir!"  he  whispered,  "it  ees  you!  .  .  . 
Nihla  Quellen!  Now  I  begin  onderstan'!  .  .  .  Yas,  I 
now  onderstan'  who  arrange  it  that  they  haf  arrest  my 
good  frien',  Tauscher!  It  ees  you,  then!  Von  Igel 
he  has  toP  me,  look  out  once  eef  she  escape — thees 
yoong  leopardess " 

"Ferez !"  Thessalie's  young  figure  stiffened  and  the 
colour  flamed  in  her  cheeks. 

"You  leopardess !"  he  repeated,  every  tooth  a-grin 
again  with  rage,  "you  misbegotten  slut  of  a  hunting 
cheetah!  So  thees  is  'ow  you  strike!  .  .  .  Ver'  well. 
Yas,  I  see  'ow  it  ees  you  strike  at " 

"Ferez!"  she  cried.     "Listen  to  me!" 

"I  'ear  you !     Allez !" 

"Ferez  Bey!     I  am  not  afraid  of  you!" 

"Ees  it  so?" 

"Yes,  it  is  so.  I  never  have  been  afraid  of  you! 
Not  even  there  on  the  deck  of  the  Mirage,  that  night 
when  you  tapped  the  hilt  of  your  Kurdish  knife  and 
spoke  of  Seraglio  Point!  Nor  when  your  scared  spy 
shot  at  me  in  the  corridor  of  the  Tenth  Street  house; 
nor  afterward  at  Dragon  Court !  Nor  now !  Do  you 
understand,  Eurasian  jackal!  Nor  now!  Anybody 
can  see  what  Heruli  whelped  you !  What  are  you  doing 
in  America?  Kassim  Pasha  is  your  den,  where  your 
rayali  loll  and  scratch  in  the  sun !  It  is  their  Keyeff! 
And  yours !" 

She  took  a  quick  step  toward  him,  her  eyes  flashing, 
her  white  hand  clenched : 

"Allah  Kerim — do  you  say?  El  Hamdu  Littah! 
Do  you  take  yourself  for  the  muezzin  of  all  jackals, 
then,  howling  blasphemies  from  some  minaret  in  the 

380 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


hills?  Do  you  understand  what  they'd  do  to  you  in 
the  Hirka-l-Sherif  Jamesi?  Because  you  are  nothing; 
do  you  hear? — nothing  but  an  Eurasian  assassin! 
And  Moslem  and  Christian  alike  know  where  you  be 
long  among  the  lost  pariahs  of  Stamboul!" 

The  girl  was  utterly  transfigured.  Whatever  of  the 
Orient  was  in  her,  now  blazed  white  hot. 

"What  have  I  done  to  you,  Ferez?  What  have  I 
ever  done  to  you  that  you,  even  from  my  childhood, 
come  always  stepping  noiselessly  at  my  skirt's  edge? 
— always  padding  behind  me  at  my  heels,  silent,  sin 
ister,  whimpering  with  bared  teeth  for  the  courage  to 
bite  which  God  denies  you!" 

The  man  stood  almost  motionless,  moistening  his 
dry  lips  with  his  tongue,  but  his  eyes  moved  continu 
ally,  stealing  uneasy  glances  around  him  and  upward, 
where,  on  the  main  terrace  above  them,  the  heads  of 
the  throng  passed  and  repassed. 

"Nihla,"  he  said,  "for  all  thees  scorn  and  abuse  of 
me,  you  know,  in  the  false  heart  of  you,  why  it  ees  so 
if  I  have  seek  you." 

"You  dealer  in  lies!  You  would  have  sold  me  to 
d'Eblis !  You  thought  you  had  sold  me !  You  were 
paid  for  it,  too !" 

"An'  still!"     He  looked  at  her  furtively. 

"What  do  you  mean?  You  conspired  with  d'Eblis 
to  ruin  me,  soul  and  body!  You  involved  me  in  your 
treacherous  propaganda  in  Paris.  Through  you  I  am 
an  exile.  If  I  go  back  to  my  own  country,  I  shall 
go  to  a  shameful  death.  You  have  blackened  my  hon 
our  in  my  country's  eyes.  But  that  was  not  enough. 
No !  You  thought  me  sufficiently  broken,  degraded, 
terrified  to  listen  to  any  proposition  from  you.  You 
sent  your  agents  to  me  with  offers  of  money  if  I  would 
betray  my  country.  Finding  I  would  not,  you  whined 

381 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


and  threatened.  Then,  like  the  Eurasian  dog  you  are, 
you  tried  to  bargain.  You  were  eager  to  offer  me 
anything  if  I  would  keep  quiet  and  not  interfere " 

"Nihla!" 

"What?"  she  said,   contemptuously. 

"In  spite  of  thees — of  all  you  say — I  have  love  you !" 

"Liar !"  she  retorted  wrathfully.  "Do  you  dare  say 
that  to  me,  whom  you  have  already  tried  to  murder?" 

"I  say  it.  Yas.  Eef  it  has  not  been  so  then  you 
were  dead  long  time." 

"You — you  are  trying  to  tell  me  that  you  spared 
me!"  she  demanded  scornfully. 

"It  ees  so.  Alexandre — d'Eblis,  you  know? — long 
time  since  he  would  have  safety  for  us  all — thees  way. 
Non!  Je  ne  pourrais  pas  vouz  tuer,  moi!  It  ees  not 
in  my  heart,  Nihla.  .  .  .  Because  I  have  love  you  long 
time — ver'  long  time." 

"Because  you  have  feared  me  long  time,  ver'  long 
time !"  she  mocked  him.  "That  is  why,  Ferez — because 
you  are  afraid;  because  you  are  only  a  jackal.  And 
jackals  never  kill.  No !" 

"You  say  thees-a  to  me,  Nihla?" 

"Yes,  I  say  it.  You're  a  coward !  And  I'll  tell  you 
something  more.  I  am  going  to  make  a  complete 
statement  to  the  French  Government.  I  shall  relate 
everything  I  know  about  d'Eblis,  Bolo  EfFendi,  a  cer 
tain  bureaucrat,  an  Italian  politician,  a  Swiss  banker, 
old  Von-der-Goltz  Pasha,  Heimholz,  Von-der-Hohe 
Pasha,  and  you,  my  Ferez — and  you,  also! 

"Do  you  know  what  France  will  do  to  d'Eblis  and 
his  scoundrel  friends?  Do  you  guess  what  these  duped 
Americans  will  do  to  Bolo  Effendi?  And  to  you?  And 
to  Von  Papen  and  Boy-ed  and  Von  Igel — yes,  and  to 
Bernstorff  and  his  whole  murderous  herd  of  Germans? 
And  can  you  imagine  what  my  own  doubly  duped 

382 


.vnHJ/ivaxs  HHH  anv^ox  awva  an 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Government  will  surely,  surely  do,  some  day,  to  you, 
Ferez?" 

She  laughed,  but  her  dark  eyes  fairly  glittered : 

"My  martyrdom  is  ending,  God  be  thanked!  And 
then  I  shall  be  free  to  serve  where  my  heart  is  ...  in 
Alsace!  .  .  .  Alsace! — forever  French!" 

In  the  white  light  she  saw  the  sweat  break  out  on 
the  man's  forehead — saw  him  grope  for  his  handker 
chief — and  draw  out  a  knife  instead — never  taking 
his  eyes  off  her. 

She  turned  to  run;  but  he  had  already  blocked  the 
way  to  the  stone  steps ;  and  now  he  came  creeping 
toward  her,  white  as  a  cadaver,  distracted  from  sheer 
terror,  and  rubbing  the  knife  flat  against  his  thigh. 

"So  you  shall  do  thees— a  filth  to  me— eh,  Nihla?" 
he  whispered  with  blanched  lips.  "It  ees  on  me,  your 
frien',  you  spring  to  keel  me,  eh,  my  leopardess?  Ver' 
well.  But  firs'  I  teach  you  somethings  you  don'  know ! 
— thees-a  way,  my  Nihla !" 

He  came  toward  her  stealthily,  moving  more  swiftly 
as  she  put  the  stone  basin  of  the  pool  between  them 
and  cast  an  agonised  glance  up  at  the  distant  terrace. 

"Jim!"  she  cried  frantically.  "Jim!  Help  me, 
Jim!" 

The  gay  din  of  the  music  above  drowned  her  cry; 
she  fled  as  Ferez  darted  toward  her,  but  again  he 
doubled  and  sprang  back  to  bar  the  stone  steps,  and 
she  halted,  white  and  breathless,  yet  poised  for  in 
stant  flight. 

Again  and  again  she  called  out  desperately  for  aid; 
the  noise  of  the  orchestra  smothered  her  cry.  And 
if,  indeed,  anybody  from  the  terrace  above  chanced  to 
glance  down,  it  is  likely  that  they  supposed  these  two 
were  skylarking  merrymakers  at  some  irresponsible 
game  of  catch-who-can. 

383 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


Suddenly  Thessalie  remembered  the  lower  level, 
where  the  automobiles  were  parked,  and  from  which 
Ferez  had  first  appeared.  She  could  escape  that  way. 
There  were  the  steps,  not  very  far  behind  her.  The 
next  instant  she  turned  and  ran  like  a  deer. 

And  after  her  sped  Ferez,  his  broad,  thin-bladed 
knife  pressed  flat  against  the  crimson  sash  across  his 
breast,  his  dead-white  visage  distorted  with  that  blind, 
convulsive  fear  which  makes  murderers  out  of  cowards. 


xxvin 

GREEN    JACKETS 

THOROUGHLY  worried  by  this  time  over  the 
sudden  disappearance  of  Thessalie  Dunois,  and 
unable  to  discover  her  anywhere  on  the  terrace 
or  in  the  house,  Westmore,  Barres  and  Dulcie  Soane 
had  followed  the  winding  main  drive  as  far  as  the  level, 
where  their  car  was  waiting  among  scores  of  other 
cars. 

But  Thessalie  was  not  there;  the  chauffeur  had  not 
seen  her. 

"Where  in  the  world  could  she  have  gone?"  faltered 
Dulcie.  "She  was  standing  up  there  on  the  terrace 
with  us,  a  moment  ago ;  then,  the  very  next  second,  she 
had  vanished  utterly." 

Westmore,  grim  and  pallid,  walked  back  along  the 
drive;  Dulcie  followed  with  Barres.  As  they  overtook 
Westmore,  he  cast  one  more  glance  back  at  the  ranks 
of  waiting  cars,  then  stared  up  at  the  terraced  hill 
above  them,  over  which  the  artificial  moon  hung  above 
the  lindens,  glowing  with  pallid,  lambent  fires. 

There  was  a  vague  whitish  object  on  one  of  the 
grassy  slopes — something  in  motion  up  there — some 
thing  that  was  running  erratically  but  swiftly — as 
though  in  pursuit — or  pursued! 

"My  God!  What's  that,  Garry!"  he  burst  out. 
"That  thing  up  there  on  the  hillside!"  . 

He  sprang  for  the  steps,  Barres  after  him,  taking 
385 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


the  ascent  at  incredible  speed,  up,  up,  then  out  along 
a  shrub-set  grassy  slope. 

"Thessa!"  shouted  Westmore.     "Thessa!" 

But  the  girl  was  flat  on  her  back  on  the  grass  now, 
fighting  sturdily  for  life — twisting,  striking,  baffling 
the  whining,  panting  thing  that  knelt  on  her,  holding 
her  and  trying  to  drive  a  knife  deep  into  the  lithe 
young  body  which  always  slipped  and  writhed  out  of 
his  trembling  clutch. 

Again  and  again  he  tore  himself  free  from  her  grasp ; 
again  and  again  his  armed  hand  sought  to  strike,  but 
she  always  managed  to  seize  and  drag  it  aside  with 
the  terrible  strength  of  one  dying.  And  at  last,  with 
a  last  crazed,  superhuman  effort,  she  wrested  the  knife 
from  his  unnerved  fist,  tore  it  out  of  his  spent  fingers. 

It  fell  somewhere  near  her  on  the  grass;  he  strove 
to  reach  it  and  pick  it  up,  but  already  her  dauntless 
resistance  began  to  exhaust  him,  and  he  groped  for  the 
knife  in  vain,  trying  to  pin  her  down  with  one  hand 
while,  with  desperate  little  fists,  she  rained  blows  on 
his  bloodless  face  that  dazed  him. 

But  there  was  still  another  way — a  much  better  way, 
in  fact.  And,  as  the  idea  came  to  him,  he  ripped  the 
red-silk  sash  from  his  breast  and,  in  spite  of  her  strug 
gles,  managed  to  pass  it  around  her  bare  neck. 

"Now!"  he  panted.  "I  keep  my  word  at  last.  C'est 
fini,  ma  petite  Nihla." 

"Jim!  Help  me!"  she  gasped,  as  Ferez  pulled  sav 
agely  at  the  silk  noose,  tightened  it  with  all  his 
strength,  knotted  it.  And  in  that  same  second  he 
heard  Westmore  crashing  through  the  shrubbery,  close 
to  him. 

Instantly  he  rose  to  his  knees  on  the  grass ;  bounded 
to  his  feet,  leaped  over  the  low  shrubs,  and  was  off 

386 


GREEN  JACKETS 


down  the  slope — gone  like  a  swift  hawk's  shadow  on 
the  hillside.     Barres  was  after  him. 

The  soul  of  Thessalie  Dunois  was  very  near  to  its 
escape,  now,  brightening,  glistening  within  its  uncon 
scious  chrysalis,  stretching  its  glorious  limbs  and 
wings ;  preparing  to  arise  from  its  spectral  tenement 
and  soar  aloft  to  its  myriad  sisters,  where  they 
swarmed  glittering  in  the  zenith. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  knife  lying  beside  her  on 
the  grass — the  blade  very  bright  in  the  starlight — 
truly  the  youthful  soul  of  Thessalie  had  been  sped. 

At  the  edge  of  the  Gerhardts'  pine  woods,  Barres, 
at  fault,  baffled,  furious,  out  of  breath  and  glaring 
around  him  in  the  dark,  sullenly  gave  up  the  hopeless 
chase,  turned  in  his  tracks,  and  came  back.  Thessalie, 
lying  in  Dulcie's  arms,  unclosed  her  eyes  and  looked 
up  at  him. 

"Are  you  all  right?"  he  ,asked,  kneeling  and  bend 
ing  over  her. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Jim  came." 

Westmore's  voice  was  shaky. 

"We  worked  her  arms — Dulcie  and  I — started  res 
piration.  She  was  nearly  gone.  That  beast  strangled 
her " 

"I  lost  him  in  those  woods  below.     Who  was  he?" 

"FerezBey!" 

Thessalie  sighed,  closed  her  eyes. 

"She's  about  all  in,"  whispered  Westmore.  And,  to 
Dulcie :  "Let  me  take  her.  I'll  carry  her  to  the  car." 

At  that  Thessalie  opened  her  eyes  again  and  the 
old,  faintly  humorous  smile  glimmered  out  at  him  as 
he  stooped  and  lifted  her  from  the  grass. 

"Can  I  really  trust  myself  to  your  arms,  Jim?"  she 
murmured. 

387 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"You'd  better  get  used  to  'em,"  he  retorted.  "You'll 
never  get  away  from  them  again — I  can  tell  you  that 
right  now!" 

"Oh.  ...  In  that  case,  I  hope  they'll  be — comfort 
able — your  arms." 

"Do  you  think  they  will  be,  Thessa?" 

"Perhaps."  She  gazed  into  his  eyes  very  seriously 
from  where  she  lay  cradled  in  his  powerful  arms. 

"I'm  tired,  Jim.  ...  So  sore  and  bruised.  .  .  . 
When  he  was  choking  me  I  tried  to  think  of  you — be 
lieving  it  was  the  end — my  last  conscious  thought " 

"My  darling! " 

"I'm  so  tired,"  she  breathed,  "so  lonely.  ...  I 

shall  be — contented — in  your  arms.  .  .  .  Always " 

She  turned  her  head  and  rested  her  cheek  against  his 
breast  with  a  deep  sigh. 


He  held  her  in  his  arms  in  the  car  all  the  way  to 
Foreland  Farms.  Dulcie,  however,  had  possessed  her 
self  of  Thessalie's  left  hand,  and  when  she  stroked  it 
and  pressed  it  to  her  lips  the  girl's  tightening  fingers 
responded,  and  she  always  smiled. 

"I'm  just  tired  and  sore,"  she  explained  languidly. 
"Ferez  battered  me  about  so  dreadfully !  ...  It  was 
so  mortifying.  I  despised  him  all  the  time.  It  made 
me  furious  to  be  handled  by  such  a  contemptible  and 
cowardly  creature." 

"It's  a  matter  for  the  police,  now,"  remarked  Barres 
gloomily.  , 

"Oh,  Garry !"  she  exclaimed.  "What  a  very  horrid 
ending  to  the  moonlit  way  we  took  together  so  long 
ago! — the  lovely  silvery  path  of  Pierrot!" 

"The  story  of  Pierrot  is  a  tragedy,  Thessa!  We 
have  been  luckier  on  our  moonlit  way." 

"Than  Pierrot  and  Pierrette?" 
388 


GREEN  JACKETS 


"Yes.  Death  always  saunters  along  the  path  of 
the  moon,  watching  for  those  who  take  it.  ...  You 
are  very  fortunate,  Pierrette." 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  "I  am  fortunate.  .  .  .  Am  I 
not,  Jim?"  she  added,  looking  up  wistfully  into  his 
shadowy  face  above  her. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  said,  "but  there'll  be 
no  more  moonlight  business  for  you  unless  I'm  with 
you.  And  under  those  circumstances,"  he  added,  "I'll 
knock  the  block  off  Old  Man  Death  if  he  tries  to  flirt 
with  you!" 

"How  brutal !  Garry,  do  you  hear  his  language  to 
me?" 

"I  hear,"  said  Barres,  laughing.  "Your  young  man 
is  a  very  matter  of  fact  young  man,  Thessa,  and  I 
fancy  he  means  what  he  says." 

She  looked  up  at  Westmore;  her  lips  barely  moved: 

"Do  you— dear?" 

"You  bet  I  do,"  he  whispered.  "I'll  pull  this  planet 
to  pieces  looking  for  you  if  you  ever  again  steal  away 
to  a  rendezvous  with  Old  Man  Death." 

When  the  car  arrived  at  Foreland  Farms,  Thessalie 
felt  able  to  proceed  to  her  room  upon  her  own  legs, 
and  with  Dulcie's  arm  around  her. 

Westmore  bade  her  good-night,  kissing  her  hand — 
awkwardly — not  being  convincing  in  any  role  requir 
ing  attitudes. 

He  wanted  to  take  her  into  his  arms,  but  seemed 
to  know  enough  not  to  do  it.  Probably  she  divined 
his  irresolute  state  of  mind,  for  she  extended  her  hand 
in  a  pretty  manner  quite  unmistakable.  And  the  ro 
mantic  education  of  James  H.  Westmore  began. 

Barres  lingered  at  the  door  after  Westmore  de 
parted,  obeying  a  whispered  aside  from  Dulcie.  She 

389 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


came  out  in  a  few  moments,  carefully  closing  the  bed 
room  door,  and  stood  so,  one  hand  behind  her  still  rest 
ing  on  the  knob. 

"Thessa  is  crying.  It's  only  the  natural  relaxation 
from  that  horrible  tension.  I  shall  sleep  with  her  to 
night." 

"Is  there  anything " 

"Oh,  no.  She  will  be  all  right.  .  .  .  Garry,  are 
they — are  they — in  love?" 

"It  rather  looks  that  way,  doesn't  it?"  he  said,  smil 
ing. 

She  gazed  at  him  questioningly,  almost  fearfully. 

"Do  you  believe  that  Thessa  is  in  love  with  Mr. 
Westmore?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  I  do.     Don't  you?" 

"I  didn't  know.  ...  I  thought  so.     But " 

"But  what?" 

"I  didn't — didn't  know — what  you  would  think  of 
it.  ...  I  was  afraid  it  might — might  make  you — 
unhappy." 

"Why?" 

"Don't  you  care  if  Thessa  loves  somebody  else?" 
she  asked  breathlessly. 

"Did  you  think  I  did,  Dulcie?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  don't." 

There  was  a  strained  silence;  then  the  girl  smiled  at 
him  in  a  confused  manner,  drew  a  swift,  sudden  breath, 
and,  as  he  stepped  forward  to  detain  her,  turned 
sharply  away,  pressing  her  forearm  across  her  eyes. 

"Dulcie !  Did  you  understand  me?"  he  said  in  a  low> 
unsteady  voice. 

She  was  already  trying  to  open  the  door,  but  he 
dropped  his  right  hand  over  her  fingers  where  they 
were  fumbling  with  the  knob,  and  felt  them  trembling. 

390 


GREEN  JACKETS 


At  the  same  moment,  the  sound  of  Thessalie's  smoth 
ered  and  convulsive  sobbing  came  to  him;  and  Dul- 
cie's  nervous  hand  slipped  from  his. 

"Dulcie!"  he  pleaded.  "Will  you  come  back  to  me 
if  I  wait?" 

She  had  stopped ;  her  back  was  still  toward  him,  but 
she  nodded  slightly,  then  moved  on  toward  the  bed, 
where  Thessalie  lay  all  huddled  up,  her  face  buried  in 
the  tumbled  pillows. 

Barres  noiselessly  closed  the  door. 

He  had  already  started  along  the  corridor  toward 
his  own  room,  when  the  low  sound  of  voices  in  the  stair 
case  hall  just  below  arrested  his  attention — his  sis 
ter's  voice  and  Westmore's.  And  he  retraced  his  steps 
and  went  down  to  where  they  stood  together  by  the 
library  door. 

Lee  wore  a  nurse's  dress  and  apron,  such  as  a  ken 
nel-mistress  affects,  and  her  strong,  capable  hands  were 
full  of  bottles  labelled  "Grover's  Specific"— the  same 
being  dog  medicine  of  various  sorts. 

"Mother  is  over  at  the  kennels,  Garry,"  she  said. 
"She  and  I  are  going  to  sit  up  with  those  desperately 
sick  pups.  If  we  can  pull  them  through  to-night  they'll 
probably  get  well,  eventually,  unless  paralysis  sets  in. 
I  was  just  telling  Jim  that  a  very  attractive  young 
Frenchman  was  here  only  a  few  minutes  before  you  ar 
rived.  His  name  is  Renoux.  And  he  left  this  letter 
for  you — fish  it  out  of  my  apron  pocket,  there's  a 
dear " 

Her  brother  drew  out  the  letter;  his  sister  said: 

"Mr.  Renoux  went  away  in  a  car  with  two  other  men. 
He  asked  me  to  say  to  you  that  there  was  no  time  to 
lose — whatever  he  meant  by  that !  Now,  I  must  hurry 
away!"  She  turned  and  sped  through  the  hall  and 
out  through  the  swinging  screen  door  on  the  north 

391 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


porch.  Garry  had  already  opened  the  note  from 
Renoux,  glanced  over  it ;  then  he  read  it  aloud  to  West- 
more: 

"Mv  DEAR  COMRADE: 

"The  fat's  in  the  fire!  Your  agents  took  Tauscher  in 
charge  to-day.  Max  Freund  and  Franz  Lehr  have  just 
been  arrested  by  your  excellent  Postal  authorities.  War 
rants  are  out  for  Sendelbeck,  Johann  Klein,  and  Louis 
Hochstein.  I  think  the  latter  are  making  for  Mexico, 
but  your  Secret  Service  people  are  close  on  their  heels. 

"Recall  for  von  Papen  and  Boy-ed  is  certain  to  be  de 
manded  by  your  Government.  Mine  will  look  after  Bolo 
Effendi  and  d'Eblis  and  their  international  gang  of  spies 
and  crooks.  Ferez  Bey,  however,  still  eludes  us.  He  is 
somewhere  in  this  vicinity,  but  of  course,  even  when  we 
locate  him  again,  we  can't  touch  him.  All  we  can  do  is 
to  point  him  out  to  your  Government  agents,  who  will  then 
keep  him  in  sight. 

"So  far  so  good.  But  now  I  am  forced  to  ask  a  very 
great  favour  of  you,  and,  if  I  may,  of  your  friend,  Mr. 
Westmore.  It  is  this:  Skeel,  contrary  to  what  was  ex 
pected  of  him,  did  not  go  to  the  place  which  is  being 
watched.  Nor  have  any  of  his  men  appeared  at  that  ren 
dezvous  where  there  lies  the  very  swift  and  well-armed 
launch,  Togue  Rouge,  which  we  had  every  reason  to  sup 
pose  was  to  be  their  craft  in  this  outrageous  affair. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  launch  is  Tauscher's.  But  it, 
and  the  pretended  rendezvous,  are  what  you  call  a  plant. 
Skeel  never  intended  to  assemble  his  men  there;  never 
intended  to  use  that  particular  launch.  Tauscher  merely 
planted  it.  Your  men  and  the  Canadian  agents,  unfortu 
nately,  are  covering  that  vicinity  and  are  still  watching 
for  Skeel,  who  has  a  very  different  plan  in  his  crazy  head. 

"Now,  this  is  Skeel's  plan,  and  this  is  the  situation, 
learned  by  me  from  papers  discovered  on  Tauscher: 

"The  explosives  bought  and  sent  there  by  Tauscher  him 
self  are  on  a  big,  fast  power-boat  which  is  lying  at  anchor 
in  a  little  cove  called  Saibling  Bay.  The  boat  flies  the 
Quebec  Yacht  Club  ensign,  and  a  private  pennant  to  which 
it  has  no  right. 


GREEN  JACKETS 


"Two  of  Skeel's  gang  are  already  aboard — a  man  named 
Con  McDermott  and  another,  Kelly  Walsh.  Skeel  joins 
the  others  at  a  hamlet  near  the  Lake  shore,  known  as  Three 
Ponds.  The  tavern  is  a  notorious  and  disreputable  old 
brick  hotel — what  you  call  a  speak-easy.  That  is  their 
rendezvous. 

"Well,  then,  I  have  wired  to  your  people,  to  Canada,  to 
Washington.  But  Three  Ponds  is  not  a  very  long  drive 
from  here,  if  one  ignores  speed  limits.  Yes?  Could  you 
help  us  maintain  a  close  surveillance  over  that  damned 
tavern  to-night?  Is  it  too  much  to  ask? 

"And  if  you  and  Mr.  Westmore  are  graciously  inclined 
to  aid  us,  would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  come  armed?  Be 
cause,  mon  ami,  unless  your  Government  people  arrive  in 
time,  I  shall  certainly  try  to  keep  Skeel  and  his  gang 
from  boarding  that  boat. 

"Au  revoir,  done!  I  am  off  with  Jacques  Alost  and 
Emile  S^uchez  for  that  charming  summer  resort,  the  Three 
Ponds  Tavern,  where,  from  the  neighbouring  roadside 
woods,  I  shall  hope  to  flag  your  automobile  by  sunrise 
and  welcome  you  and  your  amiable  friend,  Mr.  Westmore, 
as  our  brothers  in  arms. 

"RENOUX,  your  comrade  and  friend." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  Westmore  looked  at  his 
watch. 

"We  ought  to  hustle,"  he  remarked.  "I'll  get  on 
some  knickers  and  stick  a  couple  of  guns  in  my  pocket. 
You'd  better  telephone  to  the  garage." 

As  they  hastened  up  the  stairs  together,  Barres  said : 
"Have  I  time  for  a  word  with  Dulcie?" 
"That's  up  to  you.     I'm  not  going  to  say  anything 
to   Thessa.     I  wouldn't  care  to  miss  this   affair.      If 
we  arrived  too  late  and  they  had  already  dynamited 
the  Welland  Canal,  we'd  never  forgive  ourselves." 
Barres  ran  for  his  room. 

They  were  dressed,  armed  and  driving  out  of  the 
Foreland  Farms  gates  inside  of  ten  minutes.  Barres 

393 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


had  the  wheel;  Westmore  sat  beside  him  shoving  new 
clips  into  two  automatics  and  dividing  the  remaining 
boxes  of  ammunition. 

"The  crazy  devils,"  he  said  to  Barres,  raising  his 
voice  to  make  himself  heard.  "Blow  up  the  Canal, 
will  they !  What's  the  matter  with  these  Irishmen ! 
The  rest  are  not  like  'em.  Look  at  the  Flanders  fight 
ing,  Garry !  Look  at  the  magnificent  record  of  the 
Irish  regiments !  Why  don't  our  Irish  play  the 
game  ?" 

"It's  their  blind  hatred  of  England,"  shouted  Barres, 
in  his  ear.  "They're  monomaniacs.  They  can't  see 
anything  else — can't  see  what  they're  doing  to  civilisa 
tion — cutting  the  very  throat  of  Liberty  every  time 
they  jab  at  England.  What's  the  use?  You  can't 
talk  to  them.  They're  lunatics.  But  when  they  start 
things  over  here  they've  got  to  be  put  into  strait- 
jackets." 

"They  are  lunatics,"  repeated  Westmore.  "If  they 
weren't,  they  wouldn't  risk  the  wholesale  murder  of 
women  and  children.  That  is  a  purely  German  pe 
culiarity  ;  it's  what  the  normal  boche  delights  in.  But 
the  Irish  are  white  men.  And  it's  only  when  they're 
crazy  they'd  try  a  thing  like  this." 

After  a  long  silence: 

"How  fast,  Garry?" 

"Around  fifty." 

"How  far  is  it?" 

"About  twenty-five  miles  further." 

The  car  rushed  on  through  the  night  under  the  bril 
liant  July  stars  and  over  a  perfect  *oad.  In  the  hol 
lows,  where  spring  brooks  ran  under  stone  bridges,  a 
slight,  chilling  mist  hung,  but  otherwise  the  night  was 
clear  and  warm. 

Woods,  fields,  farms,  streamed  by  in  the  darkness; 
394 


GREEN  JACKETS 


the  car  tore  on  in  the  wake  of  its  glaring,  golden  head 
lights,  where  clouds  of  little  winged  creatures  of  the 
night  whirled  and  eddied  like  flecks  of  tinsel. 

Rarely  they  encountered  other  cars,  for  the  hour 
was  late,  and  there  were  no  lights  in  the  farm  houses 
which  they  passed  along  the  road. 

They  spoke  seldom  now,  their  terrific  speed  and  the 
roaring  wind  discouraging  conversation.  But  the 
night  air,  which  they  whipped  into  a  steadily  flowing 
gale,  was  still  soft  and  fragrant  and  warm;  and  with 
every  mile  their  exhilaration  increased. 

Now  the  eastern  horizon,  which  had  already  paled 
to  a  leaden  tone,  was  becoming  pallid;  and  few  stars 
were  visible  except  directly  overhead. 

Barres  slowed  down  to  twenty  miles.  Long  double 
barriers  of  dense  and  misty  woodland  flanked  the  road 
on  either  hand,  with  few  cultivated  fields  between  and 
very  rarely  a  ramshackle  barn. 

Acres  of  alder  swamp  spread  away  on  either  hand, 
set  with  swale  and  pool  and  tussock.  And  across  the 
flat  desolation  the  east  was  all  a  saffron  glow  now, 
and  the  fish-crows  were  flying  in  twos  and  threes  above 
the  bog  holes. 

"There's  a  man  in  the  road  ahead,"  said  Westmore. 

"I  see  him." 

The  man  threw  up  one  arm  in  signal,  then  made  a 
sweeping  gesture  indicating  that  they  should  turn 
to  the  left.  The  man  was  Renoux. 

"A  cart-track  and  a  pair  of  bars,"  said  Westmore. 
"Their  car  has  been  in  there,  too.  You  can  see  the 
tire  marks." 

Renoux  sprang  onto  the  running  board  without  a 
word. 

Barres  steered  his  car  very  gingerly  in  through  the 
bars  and  along  the  edge  of  the  woods  where,  presently, 

395 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


the  swampy  cart-track  turned  to  the  right  among  the 
trees. 

"All  right!"  said  Renoux  briskly,  dropping  to  the 
ground.  He  shook  hands  with  the  two  new  arrivals, 
passed  one  arm  under  each  of  theirs,  and  led  them 
forward  along  a  wet,  ferny  road  toward  a  hardwood 
ridge. 

Here  Souchez  and  Alost,  who  lay  full  length  on  the 
dead  leaves,  got  up,  to  welcome  the  reinforcements, 
and  to  point  out  the  disreputable  old  brick  building 
which  stood  close  to  the  further  edge  of  the  woods, 
rear  end  toward  them,  and  fronting  on  a  rutty  cross 
road  beyond. 

"Are  we  in  time?"  inquired  Barres  in  a  low  voice. 

"Plenty,"  said  Renoux  with  a  shrug.  "They've 
been  making  a  night  of  it  in  there.  They're  at  it  yet. 
Listen!" 

Even  at  that  distance  the  sound  of  revelry  was  audi 
ble — shouts,  laughter,  cheering,  boisterous  singing. 

"Skeel  is  there,"  remarked  Renoux,  "and  I  fancy 
he's  an  anxious  man.  They  ought  to  have  been  out 
of  that  house  before  dawn  to  escape  observation,  but  I 
imagine  Skeel  has  an  unruly  gang  to  deal  with  in  those 
reckless  Irishmen." 

Barres  and  Westmore  peered  out  through  the 
fringe  of  trees  across  the  somewhat  desolate  land 
scape  beyond. 

There  were  no  houses  to  be  seen.  Here  and  there 
on  the  bogs  were  stakes  of  swale-hay  and  a  gaunt  tree 
or  two. 

"That  brick  hotel,"  said  Renoux,  "is  one  of  those 
places  outside  town  limits,  where  law  is  defied  and  li 
cense  straddles  the  line.  It's  run  by  McDermott,  one 
of  the  two  men  aboard  the  power-boat." 

"Where  is  their  boat?"  inquired  Westmore. 
396 


GREEN  JACKETS 


Renoux  turned  and  pointed  to  the  southwest. 

"Over  there  in  a  cove — about  a  mile  south  of  us. 
If  the}7  leave  the  tavern  we  can  get  to  the  boat  first 
and  block  their  road." 

"We'll  be  between  two  fires  then,"  observed  Barres, 
"from  the  boat's  deck  and  from  Skeel's  gang." 

Renoux  nodded  coolly: 

"Two  on  the  boat  and  five  in  the  hotel  make  seven. 
We  are  five." 

"Then  we  can  hold  them,"  said  Westmore. 

"That's  all  I  want,"  rejoined  Renoux  briskly.  "I 
just  want  to  check  them  and  hold  them  until  your 
Government  can  send  its  agents  here.  I  know  I  have 
no  business  to  do  this — probably  I'll  get  into  trouble. 
But  I  can't  sit  still  and  twirl  my  thumbs  while  people 
blow  up  a  canal  belonging  to  an  ally  of  France,  can  I?" 

"Hark!"  motioned  Barres.  "They're  singing! 
Poor  devils.  They're  like  Cree  Indians  singing  their 
death  song." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Westmore  sombrely,  "that  deep 
in  each  man's  heart  there  remains  a  glimmer  of  hope 
that  he,  at  least,  may  come  out  of  it." 

Renoux  shrugged: 

"Perhaps.  But  they  are  brave,  these  Irish — brave 
enough  without  a  skinful  of  whiskey.  And  with  it 
they  are  entirely  reckless.  No  sane  man  can  foretell 
what  they  will  attempt."  He  turned  to  include  Alost 
and  Souchez:  "I  think  there  can  be  only  one  plan  of 
action  for  us,  gentlemen.  We  should  string  out  here 
along  the  edges  of  the  woods.  When  they  leave  the 
tavern  we  should  run  for  the  landing  and  get  into  the 
shack  that  stands  there — a  rickety  sort  of  boat-house 
on  piles,"  he  explained  to  Westmore  and  Barres. 
"There  is  the  path  through  the  woods."  He  pointed  to 

397 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


the  left,  where  a  trodden  way  bisected  the  wood-road. 
"It  runs  straight  to  the  landing,"  he  added. 

Alost,  at  a  sign  from  him,  started  off  westward 
through  the  woods.  Souchez  followed.  Renoux 
leaned  back  against  a  big  walnut  tree  and  signified 
that  he  would  remain  there. 

So  Barres  and  Westmore  moved  forward  to  the 
right,  very  cautiously,  circling  the  rear  of  the  old 
brick  hotel  where  a  line  of  ruined  horse-sheds  and  a 
rickety  barn  screened  them  from  view  of  the  hotel's 
south  windows. 

So  close  to  the  tavern  did  they  pass  that  they  could 
hear  the  noisy  singing  very  distinctly  and  see  through 
the  open  windows  the  movement  of  shadowy  figures 
under  the  paling  light  of  a  ceiling  lamp. 

Westmore  ventured  nearer  in  hopes  of  getting  a  bet 
ter  view  from  the  horse-sheds ;  and  Barres  crept  after 
him  through  the  rank  growth  of  swale  and  weeds. 

"Look  at  them!"  whispered  Westmore.  "They're 
in  a  sort  of  uniform,  aren't  they?" 

"They've  got  on  green  jackets  and  stable-caps! 
Do  you  see  that  stack  of  rifles  in  the  corner  of  the 
tap-room?" 

"There's  Skeel!"  muttered  Westmore,  "the  man  in 
the  long  cloak  sitting  by  the  fireplace  with  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands !" 

"He  looks  utterly  done  in,"  whispered  Barres. 
"Probably  he  can't  manage  that  gang  and  he  begins 
to  realise  it.  Hark!  You  can  hear  every  word  of 
that  thing  they're  singing." 

Every  word,  indeed,  was  a  yell  or  a  shout,  and  dis 
tinct  enough  at  that.  They  were  roaring  out  "Green 
Jackets": 

"Ok,  Irish  maids  love  none  but  those 
Who  wear  the  jackets  green!" 

398 


GREEN  JACKETS 


— all  lolling  and  carousing  around  a  slopping  wet 
table — all  save  Murtagh  Skeel,  who,  seated  near  the 
empty  fireplace  with  his  white  face  buried  between  his 
fingers,  never  stirred  from  his  attitude  of  stony  im 
mobility. 

"There's  Soane!"  whispered  Barres,  "that  man  who 
just  got  up!" 

It  was  Soane,  his  cap  cocked  aslant  on  his  curly 
head,  his  green  jacket  unbuttoned,  a  tumbler  aloft  in 
his  unsteady  clutch. 

"Whurroo!"  he  yelled.  "Gu  ma  slan  a  chi  mi! — 
fear  a9  Bhata!"  And  he  laid  a  reckless  hand  on  Skeel's 
cloaked  shoulder.  But  the  latter  never  stirred;  and 
Soane,  winking  at  the  company,  flourished  his  tumbler 
aloft  and  broke  into  "The  Risin'  o'  the  Moon": 

"Oh,  then  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Ferrall, 
Phwere  the  gatherin*  is  to  be! 

In  th*  ould  shpot  be  the  river; — 
Sure  it's  known  to  you  an*  me!" 

And  the  others  began  to  shout  the  words: 

"Death  to  every  foe  and  traitor! 
Forward!     Strike   the   marchin'  tune, 
And  hurrah,  me  lads,  for  freedom! 
'Tis  the  risin'  of  the  moon! 

"At  the  risin'  of  the  moon, 
At  the  risin'  of  the  moon, 
And  a  thousand  blades  are  flashin' 
At  the  risin'  of  the  moon !" 

"Here's  to  Murtagh  Skeel!"  roared  Soane,  "An 
gttle  dubli  ciardubh!  Whurroo!" 

Skeel  lifted  his  haggard  visage,  slowly  looked 
around,  got  up  from  his  stool. 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"In  God's  name,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "if  you're  not 
utterly  shameless,  take  your  rifles  and  follow  me. 
Look  at  the  sun!  Have  you  lads  gone  stark  mad? 
What  will  McDermott  think?  What  will  Kelly  Walsh 
say?  It's  too  late  to  weigh  anchor  now;  but  it  isn't 
too  late  to  go  aboard  and  sober  up,  and  wait  for  dark. 

"If  you've  a  rag  of  patriotism  left  you'll  quit  your 
drinking  and  come  with  me!" 

"Ah,  sure,  then,  Captain  dear,"  cried  Soane,  "is 
there  army  harrm  in  a  bite  an'  a  sup  f'r  dyin'  lads 
befoor  they  go  whizzin'  up  to  glory?" 

"I  tell  you  we  should  be  aboard!    Now!" 

Another  said: 

"Aw,  the  cap's  right.  To  hell  with  the  booze. 
Come  on,  youse!"  And  he  began  to  button  his  green 
jacket.  Another  got  up  on  unsteady  legs: 

"Sure,"  he  said,  "there  do  be  time  f'r  to  up  anchor 
an'  shquare  away  for  Point  Dalhousie.  Phwat's  in- 
terferin',  I  dunno." 

"A  Canadian  cruiser,"  said  Skeel  with  dry  bitter 
ness.  "Get  aboard,  anyway.  We'll  have  to  wait  for 
dark." 

There  was  a  reluctant  shuffle  of  feet,  a  careless  ad 
justing  of  green  jackets  and  caps,  a  reaching  for  ri 
fles. 

"Come  on,"  whispered  Barres,  "we've  got  to  get 
to  the  landing  before  they  do." 

They  turned  and  moved  off  swiftly  among  the  trees. 
Renoux  saw  them  coming,  understood,  turned  and  hur 
ried  southward  to  warn  Alost  and  Souchez.  Barres 
and  Westmore  caught  glimpses  of  them  ahead,  strid 
ing  along  the  trodden  path  under  the  trees,  and  ran 
to  overtake  them. 

"They're  going  aboard,"  said  Barres  to   Renoux. 
400 


GREEN  JACKETS 


"But  they  will  probably  wait  till  dark  before  start- 
ing." 

"They  will  unless  they're  stark  mad,"  said  Renoux, 
hurrying  out  to  the  southern  borders  of  the  wood. 
But  no  sooner  had  he  arrived  on  the  edge  of  the  open 
swale  country  than  he  uttered  an  exclamation  of  rage 
and  disgust,  and  threw  up  his  hands  helplessly. 

It  was  perfectly  plain  to  the  others  what  was  hap 
pening — and  what  now  could  not  be  prevented. 

There  lay  the  big,  swift  power  boat,  still  at  anchor ; 
there  stood  the  ramshackle  wharf  and  boat-house. 
But  already  a  boat  had  put  off  from  the  larger  craft 
and  was  being  rowed  parallel  with  the  shore  toward 
the  mouth  of  a  marshy  creek. 

Two  men  were  rowing;  a  third  steered. 

But  what  had  suddenly  upset  Renoux  was  the  sight 
of  a  line  of  green  jackets  threading  the  marsh  to  the 
north,  led  by  Skeel,  who  was  already  exchanging  hand 
kerchief  signals  with  the  men  in  the  boat. 

Renoux  glanced  at  his  prey  escaping  by  an  avenue 
of  which  he  had  no  previous  knowledge.  It  was  death 
to  go  out  into  the  open  with  pistols  and  face  the  fire 
of  half  a  dozen  rifles.  No  man  there  had  any  de 
lusions  concerning  that. 

Souchez  had  field-glasses  slung  around  his  neck. 
Renoux  took  them,  gazed  at  the  receding  boat,  set  his 
teeth  hard. 

"Ferez !"  he  growled. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Westmore,  turning  a  violent 
red. 

"The  man  steering  is  Ferez  Bey."  Renoux  handed 
the  binoculars  to  Westmore  with  a  shrug. 

Barres,  bending  double,  had  gone  out  into  the  swale. 
A  thicket  of  cat-tails  screened  him  and  he  advanced 
very  carefully,  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  green- jacketed 

401 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


men  whose  heads,  shoulders  and  rifles  were  visible 
above  the  swampy  growth  beyond. 

Suddenly  Renoux,  who  was  watching  him  in  bitter 
silence,  saw  him  turn  and  beckon  violently. 

"Quick!"  he  said  in  a  low,  eager  voice.  "He  may 
have  found  a  ditch  to  shelter  us !" 

Renoux  was  correct  in  his  surmise:  Barres  stood 
with  drawn  pistol,  awaiting  them  in  a  muddy  ditch 
which  ran  through  the  reeds  diagonally  across  the 
marsh.  It  was  shin-deep  in  water. 

"We  could  make  a  pretty  good  stand  in  a  ditch 
like  this,  couldn't  we?"  he  demanded  excitedly. 

"You  bet  we  can!"  replied  Renoux,  jumping  down 
beside  him,  followed  by  Westmore,  Alost  and  Souchez 
in  turn. 

Barres,  leading,  ran  down  the  ditch  as  fast  as  he 
could,  spattering  himself  and  the  others  with  mud  and 
water  at  every  step. 

"Here!"  panted  Renoux,  clambering  nimbly  out  of 
the  ditch  and  peering  ahead  through  the  reeds.  Then 
he  suddenly  stood  upright: 

"Halt!"  he  shouted.  "It's  all  up  with  you,  Skeel! 
Keep  away  from  that  boat,  or  I  order  my  men  to 
fire!" 

There  was  a  dead  silence  for  a  moment;  then  Skeel's 
voice: 

"Better  not  bother  us,  my  good  man.  We  know  our 
business  and  you'd  better  learn  yours." 

"Skeel,"  retorted  Renoux,  "my  business  is  other 
people's  business,  sometimes.  It's  yours  just  now.  I 
warn  you  to  keep  away  from  that  boat !"  He  turned 
and  hailed  the  boat  in  the  next  breath:  "Boat  ahoy! 
Keep  off  or  we  open  fire !" 

The  metallic  bang  of  a  rifle  cut  him  short  and  his 

402 


GREEN  JACKETS 


straw  hat  was  jerked  from  his  head.  Then  came 
Skeel's  voice,  calmly  dangerous : 

"I  know  you,  Renoux !  You  have  no  standing  here. 
Keep  away  or  I'll  kill  you!" 

"What  lawful  standing  have  you — leading  an  armed 
expedition  from  the  United  States  into  Canada!"  re 
torted  Renoux,  red  with  anger  and  looking  about  for 
his  hat. 

"If  you  don't  get  back  I  shall  surely  kill  you!"  re 
plied  Skeel.  "I  count  three,  Renoux: — one — two — 
three."  Bang!  went  another  rifle,  and  Renoux 
shrugged  and  dropped  reluctantly  back  into  the  ditch. 

"They're  crazy,"  he  said.  "Barres,  fire  across  that 
boat  out  yonder." 

Westmore  also  fired,  aiming  carefully  at  Ferez.  It 
was  too  far;  they  both  knew  it.  But  the  ricochetting 
bullets  seemed  to  sting  the  rowers  to  frantic  exertion, 
and  Ferez,  at  the  rudder,  ducked  and  squatted  flat,  the 
tip  of  his  hat  alone  showing  over  the  gunwale. 

"We  can't  stop  them,"  said  Renoux  desperately. 
"They're  certain  to  reach  that  boat." 

Now,  suddenly,  Skeel's  six  rifles  cracked  viciously 
and  the  bullets  came  screaming  over  the  ditch. 

Renoux  fairly  gnashed  his  teeth: 

"If  a  bluff  won't  stop  them,  then  I'm  through,"  he 
said  bitterly.  "I  haven't  any  authority.  I  haven't 
the  audacity  to  fire  on  them — to  so  insult  your  Gov 
ernment.  And  yet,  by  God ! — there's  the  canal  to  re 
member  !" 

Another  volley  from  the  Green  Jackets,  and  again 
the  whizzing  scream  of  bullets  through  the  cat-tails 
above  their  heads. 

"Look!"  cried  Barres.  "They're  embarking  al 
ready  !  There  isn't  a  chance  of  holding  them." 

It  was  true.  Pell-mell  through  the  shallow  water 
403 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


and  into  the  boat  leaped  the  Green  Jackets,  holding 
their  rifles  high  in  the  early  sunshine;  Skeel  sprang 
in  last  of  all;  the  oars  flashed. 

Pistols  hanging  helplessly,  Renoux  and  his  men 
stood  there  foolishly  on  the  edge  of  their  ditch  and 
watched  the  boat  pull  back  to  the  big  power-craft. 

Nobody  said  anything.  The  Green  Jackets  climbed 
aboard  with  a  derisive  cheer.  So  near  was  the  power 
boat  that  Skeel,  Ferez,  and  Soane  were  easily  distin 
guishable  there  in  the  brilliant  sunshine,  on  deck. 

"Anyway,"  burst  out  Renoux,  "they'll  not  dare  lie 
there  at  anchor  and  wait  for  dark,  now." 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  anchor  came  up. 

Very  deliberately  the  small  boat  was  hoisted  to  the 
davits ;  the  big  craft  began  to  move,  swinging  her  nose 
north  by  west,  the  spray  breaking  under  the  bows. 
She  was  already  under  way,  already  headed  for  the 
open  sea. 

And  then,  without  any  warning  whatever,  out  of 
the  northeast,  almost  sheering  the  jutting  point  which 
had  concealed  her,  rushed  a  Canadian  patrol  boat,  her 
forward  deck  a  geyser  of  spouting  foam. 

A  red  lance  of  flame  leaped  from  her  forward  gun ; 
the  sharp  crack  shattered  the  summer  stillness;  the 
shell  went  skittering  away  over  the  water,  across  the 
bows  of  the  power-boat ;  a  string  of  signals  broke 
from  the  cruiser's  mast. 

Then  an  amazing  thing  happened;  the  power-boat's 
after  deck  suddenly  swarmed  with  Green  Jackets ;  there 
came  a  flash  and  a  report,  and  a  shell  burst  over  the 
Canadian  patrol  cruiser,  cutting  her  halliards  to  rib 
bons. 

"Well — by — God!"  gasped  Renoux.  Barres  and 
Westmore  stood  petrified;  but  the  three  Frenchmen, 
with  one  accord,  and  standing  up  very  straight,  un- 

404 


GEE  EN  JACKETS 


covered  in  the  presence  of  these  men  who  were  about 
to  die. 

Suddenly  the  power-boat  broke  out  a  flag  at  her 
masthead — a  bright  green  flag  bearing  a  golden  harp. 

Again  the  small  gun  flashed  from  her  after-deck; 
another  gun  spoke  with  a  splitting  report  from  the 
starboard  bow;  both  the  shells  exploded  close  to  the 
patrol  cruiser,  showering  her  superstructure  wj*h 
steel  fragments. 

And,  as  the  concussions  subsided,  and  the  landward 
echoes  of  the  shots  died  away,  far  and  clear  from  the 
power-boat's  decks,  across  the  water,  came  the  de 
fiant  chorus : 

"I  saw  the  Shannon's  purple  tide 

Roll  by  the  Irish  town, 
As  I  stood  in  the  breach  by  Donal's  side 
When  England's  flag  went  down! — " 

They  were  singing  "Green  Jackets,"  these  doomed 
men.  Barres  could  hear  them  cheering,  too,  for  a  mo 
ment  only — then  every  gun  aboard  the  flimsy  little 
craft  spat  flame  at  the  big  Canadian,  and  the  burst 
ing  shells  splashed  the  water  all  around  her  with  their 
pigmy  fragments. 

Now,  from  the  cruiser,  a  single  gun  bellowed.  In 
stantly  a  red  glare  wrapped  the  launch;  there  was  a 
heavy  report,  a  fountain  of  rushing  smoke  and  debris. 

Against  the  infernal  flare  of  light  Skeel's  tall  figure 
showed  in  silhouette,  standing  there  with  hat  lifted  as 
though  cheering.  Again,  from  the  cruiser,  a  gun 
crashed.  Where  the  burning  launch  had  been  a  hor 
rible  flare  shot  up;  and  the  shocking  detonation  rocked 
land  and  sky.  On  the  water  a  vast  black  cloud  rested, 
almost  motionless ;  and  all  around  rained  charred 

405 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


things  that  had  been  wood  and  steel  and  clothing,  per 
haps — perhaps  fragments  of  living  creatures. 

So  passed  into  eternity  Murtagh  Skeel  and  his 
Green  Jackets,  hurled  skyward  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  on  the  roaring  blast  of  their  own  magazine.  What 
was  left  of  their  green  flag  attained  an  altitude  un 
paralleled  that  sunny  morning.  But  their  souls  soared 
higher  into  that  blinding  light  which  makes  all  things 
clear  at  last,  solves  all  questions,  all  perplexities — 
which  consoles  all  griefs  and  quiets  at  last  the  bitter 
mirth  of  those  who  have  laughed  at  Death  for  con 
science's  sake. 

Very  slowly  the  dull  cloud  lifted  from  the  sunlit 
water.  Dead  fish  floated  there;  others,  half-stunned, 
lay  awash  with  fins  quivering,  or  strove  to  turn  over, 
shining  silver  white  in  the  morning  sun. 


XXIX 

ASTHOEE 

THE    sun    hung    low    over    Northbrook    hills    as 
Barres  turned  his  touring  car  in  between  the 
high,  white   service  gates   of  Foreland  Farms, 
swung  around  the  oval  and  backed  into  the  garage. 

Barres  senior,  very  trim  in  tweeds,  the  web-straps 
of  a  creel  and  a  fly-book  wallet  crossing  his  breast, 
glanced  up  from  his  absorbing  occupation  of  prepar 
ing  evening  casts  on  a  twelve-foot,  tapered  mist- 
leader. 

"Hello,"  he  said  absently,  glancing  from  his  son  to 
Westmore  through  his  monocle,  "where  have  you  been 
keeping  yourselves  all  day?" 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  later,  dad,"  said  Garry, 
emerging  from  the  garage  with  Westmore.  "Where 
is  mother?" 

"In  the  kennels,  I  believe.  .  .  .  What  do  you  think 
of  this  cast,  Jim? — a  whirling  dun  for  a  dropper,  a 

hare's  ear  for  a "     He  checked  himself;  glanced 

doubtfully  at  the  two  young  men. 

"You're  somewhat  muddy,"  he  remarked;  and  con 
tinued  to  explore  his  fly-book  for  new  combinations. 

Westmore,  very  weary,  started  for  the  house;  Garry 
walked  across  to  the  kennel  gate,  let  himself  in  among 
a  dozen  segregated  and  very  demonstrative  English 
setters,  walked  along  the  tree-bordered  alley  behind 
the  garage,  and,  shutting  out  the  affectionate  but 
quarantined  dogs,  entered  the  kennels. 

407 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


His  mother,  in  smock  and  apron,  and  wearing  rub 
ber  gloves,  was  seated  on  the  edge  of  a  straw-littered 
bunk,  a  bottle  in  one  hand,  a  medicine-dropper  in  the 
other.  Her  four-footed  patient,  swathed  in  blankets, 
lay  on  the  straw  beside  her. 

"Well,  dear,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  her  son, 
"where  have  you  been  all  night,  and  most  of  to-day?" 

"I'll  tell  you  about  it  later,  mother.  There's  some 
thing  else  I  want  to  ask  you "  He  fell  silent, 

watching  her  measure  out  fourteen  drops  of  Grover's 
Specific  for  distemper. 

"I'm  listening,  Garry,"  she  said,  bending  over  the 
sick  pup  and  gently  forcing  open  his  feverish  jaws. 
Then  she  dropped  her  medicine  far  back  on  his  tongue ; 
the  pup  gulped,  sneezed,  looked  at  her  out  of  dull  eyes 
and  feebly  wagged  his  tail. 

"I'm  going  to  pull  him  through,  Garry,"  she  said. 
"The  other  pups  are  doing  well,  too.  But  your  sister 
and  I  were  up  with  them  all  night.  I  only  hope  and 
pray  that  the  distemper  doesn't  spread." 

She  looked  up  at  her  son: 

"Well,  dear,  what  is  it  you  have  to  ask  me?" 

"Mother,  do  you  like  Dulcie  Soane?" 

"I  scarcely  know  her  yet.  .  .  .  She's  very  sweet — 
very  young " 

"Do  you  like  her?" 

"Why— yes "     She  looked  intently  at  her  tall, 

unsmiling  son.     "But  I  don't  even  know  who  she  is, 
Garry." 

Her  son  bent  down  beside  her  and  put  one  arm 
around  her  shoulder.  She  sat  quite  motionless  with 
the  bottle  of  Grover's  Specific  in  one  rubber-gloved 
hand,  the  medicine  dropper  poised  in  the  other. 

He  said: 

"Dulcie's   name  is  Fane,  not   Soane.      Her  grand- 
408 


ASTHORE 


father  was  Sir  Barry  Fane,  of  Fane  Court — an  Irish 
man.  His  daughter,  Eileen,  was  Dulcie's  mother. 
.  .  .  Her  father — is  dead — I  believe." 

"But — this  explains  nothing,  Garry." 

"Is  it  not  explanation  enough,  mother?" 

"Is  it  enough  for  you,  my  son?" 

"Yes." 

Her  head  slowly  drooped.  She  sat  gazing  in  si 
lence  at  the  straw-littered  floor. 

He  looked  earnestly,  anxiously  at  his  mother's  face. 
Her  brooding  expression  remained  tranquil  but  in 
scrutable. 

He  said,  watching  her  intently: 

"I  wasn't  sure  about  myself  until  last  night.  I 
don't  know  about  Dulcie,  whether  she  can  care  for  me 
— in  this  new  way.  .  .  .  We  were  friends.  But  I  am 
in  love  with  her  now.  .  .  .  Deeply." 

It  was  one  of  the  moments  in  his  career  which  re 
main  fixed  forever  in  a  young  man's  memory. 

In  a  mother's  memory,  too.  Whatever  she  says 
and  does  then,  he  never  forgets.  She,  too,  remembers 
always. 

He  stood  leaning  over  her  in  the  dim  light  of  the 
kennel,  one  arm  around  her  shoulders,  waiting.  And 
presently  she  lifted  her  head,  looked  him  quietly  in 
the  eyes,  bent  forward  very  gently,  and  kissed  him. 

Dulcie  was  not  in  the  house,  nor  was  Thessalie. 

Barres  and  Westmore  exchanged  conversation  be 
tween  their  open  doors  while  bathing  and  dressing. 

"You  know,  Garry,"  admitted  the  latter,  "I  feel  all 
shaken  up,  yet,  over  that  ghastly  business." 

"So  do  I.  ...  If  they  hadn't  died  so  gamely.  .  .  . 
But  Skeel  was  a  man!" 

"You  bet  he  was,  crazy  or  sane !  .  .  .  What  a  pity ! 
409 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


.  .  .  And  that  poor  devil,  Soane!  Did  you  hear  them 
cheering  there,  at  the  last?  And  what  superb  nerve 
— breaking  out  that  green  flag!" 

"And  think  of  their  opening  on  that  big  patrol 
boat!  They  hadn't  a  chance." 

"They  had  no  chance  anyway,"  said  Westmore. 
"It  meant  execution  if  they  surrendered — at  least, 
they  probably  thought  so.  But  how  do  you  suppose 
that  cowardly  strangler,  Ferez,  felt  when  he  realised 
that  Skeel  was  going  to  fight?" 

"He  certainly  got  what  was  coming  to  him,  didn't 
he?"  said  Barres  grimly.  "You'll  tell  Thessa,  won't 
you?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  find  her,"  nodded  Westmore,  giv 
ing  his  fresh  bow-tie  a  most  killing  twist. 

He  was  ready  before  Barres  was,  and  he  lost  no 
time  in  starting  out  to  find  Thessalie. 

Barres,  following  him  later,  discovered  him  on  the 
library  lounge  with  Thessalie's  fair  cheek  resting 
against  his. 

"I'm  s-sorry !"  he  stammered,  backing  out,  and  very 
conscious  of  Westmore's  unconcealed  annoyance.  But 
Thessalie  called  to  him  in  a  perfectly  calm  voice,  and 
he  ventured  to  come  back. 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  Dulcie  about  this  horrible  af 
fair?"  she  asked. 

"Not  immediately.  .  .  .  Are  you  feeling  all  right, 
Thessa?" 

"Yes.  I  had  a  horrid  night.  Isn't  it  odd  how  a 
girl  can  so  completely  lose  her  nerve  after  a  thing  is 
all  over?" 

"That's  the  best  time  to  lose  it,"  said  Westmore. 
And  to  Barres:  "She's  bruised  from  head  to  foot 
and  her  neck  hurts  yet " 

"It  is  nothing,"  murmured  Thessalie,  looking  smil- 
410 


ASTHOEE 


ingly  at  her  lover.     Then  they  both  glanced  at  Barres. 

There  was  a  silence.  Side  by  side  on  the  library 
lounge  they  continued  to  gaze  expectantly  at  Barres. 
And  when  he  got  it  into  his  head  that  this  polite  ex 
pectancy  might  express  their  desire  for  his  early  de 
parture,  he  backed  out  again,  embarrassed  and 
slightly  irritated. 

Thessalie  called  to  him  very  sweetly: 

"If  you  are  looking  for  Dulcie,  I  left  her  a  few 
minutes  ago  over  by  the  wall-fountain  in  the  rose  ar 
bour." 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  and  turned  back  through  the 
hall,  traversing  it  to  the  north  veranda. 

There  was  no  sign  of  Dulcie  in  the  garden  or  on  the 
lawn.  He  walked  slowly  across  the  clipped  grass,  beyond 
the  pool,  and,  turning  to  the  right  past  a  sun-dial, 
stepped  into  the  long  rose-arbour.  At  the  further  end 
of  the  blossoming  tunnel  he  saw  her  seated  on  the  low 
wall  in  the  rear  of  the  tea-house.  Her  head  was 
turned  toward  the  woods  beyond. 

When  he  was  near  her  she  heard  him  and  looked 
around,  was  on  the  point  of  rising,  but  something  in 
his  expression  held  her  motionless. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Garry?" 

He  ignored  the  question,  seated  himself  beside  her 
on  the  wall,  and  drew  both  her  hands  into  his.  He 
saw  the  swift  colour  stain  her  face,  the  lovely,  dis 
concerted  eyes  lower. 

"Last  night,"  he  said,  "did  you  come  back  as  you 
promised  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  found  me  gone.'* 

She  nodded. 

"What  could  you  have  thought  of  me,  Dulcie?" 

"I — my  thoughts  were — not  very  clear." 
411 


THE  MOONLIT  WAY 


"Are  they  clearer?" 

Her  head  remained  lowered  but  she  raised  her  grey 
eyes  to  his.  Her  face  had  become  very  still  and 
white. 

"Dulcie,"  he  said  under  his  breath,  "I  am  in  love 
with  you.  .  .  .  What  will  you  do  about  it?" 

And,  after  a  little  while: 

"W-what  shall  I  do,  Garry?"  she  whispered. 

"Love  me.     Can  you?" 

She  remained  silent. 

"Will  you?— Dulcie  Fane!" 

Her  lips  stirred,  but  no  sound  came. 

"You  are  so  wonderful,"  he  said.  "I  am  just  real 
ising  that  I  began  to  fall  in  love  with  you  a  long  time 
ago." 

The  declining  sun  sent  a  red  shaft  across  the  fields, 
painting  every  tree-trunk,  gilding  bramble  and  brake. 
A  single  ray  touched  the  girl's  white  neck  and  turned 
her  copper-tinted  hair  to  burning  gold. 

"Do  you  love  me?  Can  you  love  me,  that  way,  Dul 
cie?" 

She  rose  abruptly,  and  he  rose  too,  retaining  her 
hands;  but  as  she  turned  her  head  from  him  he  saw 
her  mouth  quiver. 

"Dearest — dearest!"     But   she   interrupted   him: 

"I  want  to  tell  you — that  I  don't  understand  why 
I  should  be  called  by  my  mother's  maiden  name.  .  .  . 
I  w-want  you  to  know  that  I  don't  understand  it  ... 
if  that  would  make  a  difference — in  your  c-caring  for 
me.  .  .  .  And  I  wish  you  to  know  that — that  I  love 
and  worship  her  memory — and  that  I  am  happy  and 
proud — and  proud — to  bear  her  name." 

"My  darling " 

"Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  Dulcie." 

412 


ASTHORE 


"And  do  you  still  want  me?" 

"You   adorable   child -" 

"Do  you?" 

"Of  course  I  do "  He  caught  her  in  his  arms, 

held  her  close,  lifted  her  flushed  face.  "Now,  tell  me 
whether  you  can  love  me!  Tell  me  everything  that's 
hidden  in  your  mind  and  heart!" 

"Oh,  Garry,"  she  faltered,  "I  do  belong  to  you.  I 
belong  to  you  anyway,  because  you  made  me.  And 
I've  always  been  in  love  with  you — always ! — always 
from  the  very  beginning  of  the  world,  Asthore!  And 
now — if  you  want  me — this  way — Garry  mo  veel 

astliore "  Her  hands  crept  from  his  breast  to  his 

shoulders;  stole  up  around  his  neck.  "Asthore,"  she 
murmured ;  and  their  lips  met  in  their  first  kiss.  Then 
she  gravely  turned  her  head  and  laid  her  cheek  against 
his;  and  he  heard  her  murmuring  to  herself: 

"Drahareen  o  machree,  mo  veel  asthore!  This  man 
— this  man  who  takes  my  heart — and  gives  me 
his.  .  .  ." 

"What  are  you  murmuring  there  all  to  yourself?" 
he  whispered,  laughing  and  drawing  her  closer.  But 
she  only  clung  to  him  passionately  and  her  closed  lids 
kept  back  the  starting  tears. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  he  asked. 

"H-happiness,"  she  whispered,  "and  pride,  perhaps. 
.  .  .  And  my  love  for  you,  Asthore!" 


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